


baking is punk as fuck

by heyfightme



Series: soft hands full discography [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Music, Alternate Universe - Punk, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Misgendering, and bad hockey puns, and shitty diy punk, is it a college au if they're already in college?, mentions of past drug abuse and addiction, the punk band au no one asked for, warnings for pbr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-09-24 15:20:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 56,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9767870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heyfightme/pseuds/heyfightme
Summary: “Yeah, dude, I guess. But, like, this is a fuckin’ liberal arts college, brah. Isn’t everyone in a band?”“I don’t know. I’ve never met anyone in a band before. I’m not in a band. Well, I’m in some school bands, but that’s not really… um. What kind of music do you play?”“…Well.”In which instead of actually playing hockey, the guys play shitty (pun intended) DIY punk in a band called Soft Hands. Classically-trained pianist Eric Bittle doesn’t quite know what has hit him.





	1. gaps in my story for tomorrow morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This slightly came out of nowhere. I was at a PUP show a couple weeks ago (amazing, Canadian, good for screaming along to) and had the fleeting thought of " _Check, Please_ DIY punk band AU." It lay dormant until the other night, when I was listening to some Modern Baseball and drinking hard lemonade. Now, here we are.
> 
> This is very self-indulgent, and very full of real experiences I have had. I can only hope that other people find it as enjoyable as I do.
> 
> There are 12 playlists for this fic. All of them can be found on [my public Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/user/whyfrenchfry), where you can also find a bunch of other non-punk music. Give them a listen - I've been told they greatly enhance the fic experience (b ᵔ▽ᵔ)b
> 
> Anyway, play ball kids!

 

There were a few things it was hard not to notice about the person who sat next to Eric in his afternoon English credit: he had hair longer than most of the girls in the class, and a moustache to rival Eric’s daddy’s; his exposed forearms, hands, and fingers were covered in tattoos; and he consistently gave off the distinct smell of weed. At least, that’s what Eric guessed it to be. He didn’t have a lot of experience with it, to be honest.

 

Any of these things individually may have been enough to warrant giving this guy a wide berth. However, he was truly, for lack of a better word, _affable_. He always greeted Eric with a smile and a “Hey, brah.” From their first meeting, he had lapsed into talking as though they had always known each other. Eric had been too overwhelmed to ask who any of the people he was mentioning were. They all had named like _Ransom_ and _Lardo_ and _Holster_ , and if their names weren’t confusing enough the things they got up to certainly were. Eric found it much easier to just politely listen, laugh when he felt like it, and answer questions when prompted. Such as:

 

“Bruh, by the way. What’s your name?”

 

Eric isn’t proud of the way he gapes and blushes. It’s just. They’ve been sitting next to each other for nearly two weeks now, and it seems like a total aberration of politeness that neither have actually introduced themselves. Eric almost trips over his own words in his haste to apologize.

“Oh my _god_ , I’m so sorry. I can’t believe how rude I’ve been! Sittin’ here and talking with you all this time, and I never even thought. My mama would just _die_.”

 

The guy looks at him with raised brows, moustache twitching a little as his mouth tugs with something of a smile. They stare at each other for a few moments when Eric realizes he hasn’t actually answered the question.

“ _Lord_ , listen to me. I’m Eric.” He thrusts out his hand, which is genially folded in the guy’s own tattooed fingers. “Eric Bittle.”

“Shitty.”

“Um. Beg your pardon?”

“My name; Shitty. Well, that’s what everyone calls me.”

“Oh. Okay then.” They’re still shaking hands, and Eric is still smiling. When he lets go and looks to the front, he has a mild out-of-body experience, and sees himself, turquoise button-down tucked in to chinos and an undercut; Shitty, with tears in the knees of his jeans and a t-shirt with a pocket illustration sporting a skateboarding skeleton and the words _Hockey_ _Dad_.

 

Eric is struck by the word _juxtaposition_.

 

He doesn’t have much time to ruminate on his new friend. The lecturer arrives and begins talking about the barely-latent homoeroticism in _The_ _Sun_ _Also_ _Rises_. Eric actually feels bolstered enough to raise his hand to make a comment, and manages to get out something about the language that describes Brent as a boat, and the way this correlates to typical gendering of vehicles by men.

 

At the end of the lecture, Shitty tucks his notebook under one arm and claps his other hand on Eric’s shoulder.

“Eric, my guy. Do you want to grab a beer?”

“It’s two o’clock.”

“Time is a fuckin’ construct, bruh. It isn’t real.”

 

Eric can’t really argue against that, which is how he ends up in a pizza-by-the-slice restaurant slightly off campus, drinking a PBR. Surprisingly, he can actually tolerate it.

“So, Shitty,” he says, sucking beer off his top lip and picking up his pizza slice. “Do you like hockey?”

Shitty lets out a loud bark of a laugh, throwing his head back and all. He throws a grin at Eric. “See, man, this is why I like you. Always a fuckin’ surprise. Where did that even come from?”

Eric can’t help but frown a little. Not for the first time, he’s confused by Shitty’s general Shitty-ness. “Your t-shirt? It says ‘Hockey Dad’ on it. I thought it might be a joke, or something.”

Shitty looks down, as though surprised to find he is actually wearing a shirt, and tugs it out a little to check the pocket illustration.

 

“Oh, nah man. They’re a fuckin’ sick band.”

Eric nods politely and takes a bite of his pizza. Shitty frowns at him speculatively.

“Do _you_ like hockey?”

Eric hums around his mouthful. “Yes! I played in high school. I considered trying to play here, but. Well. My scholarship doesn’t let me.”

“Oh, no shit? You’re on a scholarship?”

“Yup,” Eric says, popping the ‘p’ before taking another sip of his beer. It’s steadily growing on him. “Piano. Well, music.”

“No _shit_.” Shitty’s now leaning back in his seat, grinning widely at Eric with one hand wrapped around his own beer. It goes on for a series of moments, and Eric becomes decidedly unnerved. He pulls a face and shrugs his shoulders up around his ears.

“Oh my god, _what_? Why are you lookin’ at me like that? Quit it, you’re bein’—“

“I’m in a band.”

 

It’s such a blindside, Eric can’t make an immediate response. He opens his mouth a few times to say something, but can’t make words happen. What he eventually manages is, “That’s exciting!”

 

He’s still not sure it’s the right thing.

 

Shitty laughs again. “Yeah, dude, I guess. But, like, this is a fuckin’ liberal arts college, brah. Isn’t everyone in a band?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never met anyone in a band before. I’m not in a band. Well, I’m in some school bands, but that’s not really… um. What kind of music do you play?”

“…Well.”

 

For maybe the first time, Shitty doesn’t seem to know what to say. He squints at Eric for a moment, then visibly makes a decision and settles his forearms on the table. Eric finds himself looking, again, at the tattoos. They’re bold, with thick lines, filled with a riot of color. He can make out a horseshoe, several roses, an eagle.

“Hey, Eric.” Shitty pauses until Eric looks up at his face. “Do you wanna come to a show with me?”

Eric has a mouthful of beer, one he now takes his time in swallowing. He sucks his top lip into his mouth. There are many things telling Eric he should say ‘no,’ primarily that he doesn’t know Shitty all too well, and the concept of being taken to an unknown location to listen to unknown music only seems to suggest danger. He tries not to think about the ‘in case of emergency’ number saved in his phone, and his mama getting a call at three in the morning telling her he’s had his drink spiked.

 

On the other hand. Eric is a sophomore, and outside of fellow music majors, he hasn’t managed to socialize much. He doesn’t have what he would consider a concrete group of friends. And he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t intrigued.

 

This is all how, against his better judgement, he ends up tucked under Shitty’s arm and being guided down fraternity row at ten o’clock that night. The flow of freshmen along the footpath trickles into different houses, ones with polo-wearing blonde boys holding solo cups and playing bouncer by counting dresses. But Shitty guides him on, on and up the steps outside a house with no lights glowing and a ratty collection of banana lounges on the porch. He knocks insistently on the door and rings the bell until it swings open to a tall and angular guy with fantastic cheekbones and deeply brown eyes. He says, “Alright, Shits?” and throws a playful punch at Shitty’s shoulder. This is all how Eric ends up in a casually crowded basement with murals on every wall and smoke clouding the roof, watching Shitty fill two Pepsi cans at a reluctant beer keg.

 

Shitty tells him that the building  _is_  a frat, but “more of a ‘fuck the patriarchy’ kind of frat, because everyone you see here is a brother, if only because it’s free beer on Thursdays and a place to get a private room for anyone who isn’t RA material.”

 

They’re pushed into a corner and Eric finds himself nattering away about piano – been playing since he was a kid, it was that and figure skating, and then hockey, and skating is fun but he had to choose – while Shitty provides occasional comment.

“Bitty, my little brah, you gotta meet Jack. It’s just fuckening uncanny, with the hockey and the music. Like, _dude_.”

 

Before Eric can ask about Jack and who he is, Shitty has let out a primal roar and shouted something that sounds like “Lardo!” while grinning at someone across the room.

“Bitty, I’ll be right back. Here, talk to Holster!”

He bounds away with a splash of beer, leaving Eric with a whiff of the sweetness of pot, and looking at the man Shitty had seemingly drawn from thin air.

 

He smiles down – down, _down_ – at Eric, warm and toothy. He is blond and has an undercut, like Eric, though his is shaved much closer and he has a snarling animal of some kind tattooed on the side of his head. He wears square-framed glasses of the kind normally associated with hipsters, and wears a t-shirt emblazoned with a logo that Eric is going to assume is a band. He holds out a large hand, nails painted starkly black against his pale skin, and shakes Eric’s hand firmly.

 

“Sorry, he does that. I’m Holster. You’re… Bitty?”

“I guess so. Eric, actually. I don’t know where he got Bitty from.”

Holster grins again.

“You’re a freshman?”

“No, sophomore. I’m in Shitty’s English course this semester.”

“Ah, yes. Dicks, dicks, and dicks in books.”

Eric sputters slightly. “I’m sorry?”

“Empire, Gender, and Sexuality in Literature? Dicks, Dicks, and Dicks in Books?”

Holster takes a sip of his beer, which is held inside a huge German beer stein, the deer-adorned lid tipped back. Eric stares at him. He decides a change of topic is in order.

 

“Shitty said he was taking me to a show, but then he brought me here. I guess we’re going later.”

Holster laughs, loud and hearty, with a warmth that makes Eric think he’s only half being made fun of.

“You’re at the show, bro. The band’s starting in fifteen or so.”

Eric feels his eyebrows raise, and can’t help his eyes sweeping over the room: the graffiti on the walls; the crowd of drinkers and smokers; the general smallness of it all.

“I feel like TV has lied to me,” Eric tries to comment blithely, tamping down on the rising layer of doubts in his brain.

“I guess Shits didn’t explain properly. We’re a frat, but we also put on shows for local bands and shit. There’s a few other good venues around; Golden Treehouse, Yarga’s Basement, Michael Jordania. But, yeah. The Haus is the best. We’ve got brothers.”

“Holster is weirdly into brotherhood,” is hissed into Eric’s ear. He cranes his head back to see Shitty’s mane of hair and a joint now clamped between his lips.

“Dude, you can _not_ fuckin’ talk. Just last night, you were trying to convince us all to get matching stick-n-pokes. You _do_ have a matching stick-n-poke with Jack.”

“Don’t be a player-hater, brah. You fuckin’ wish you had a brotherly bond as strong as ours.”

Holster claps a hand to his chest and makes a wounded noise. He also, inexplicably, points to the animal inked underneath his hair.

“Yeah, yeah. Grow out your hair, and that’s hidden.”

“Yours is on your thigh, Shits.”

“And how often do I wear pants, Holtzy?”

 

Eric idly sips his beer, aware that there are many layers happening to the current conversation that he has neither the language nor memories to correctly access.

“Speaking of geese –“ Shitty guffaws at the comment, which once again soars over Eric’s head—“should we grab El Capitain down from his chambers?”

“Just send his salty ass a text; he knows what time it starts. I gotta make sure my little bro gets a good spot at his first show.” He punctuates this with a ruffle of Eric’s hair.

“Oh! Um, thank you, Shitty, but I might just hang in the back? I’ll still be able to hear.”

“Nah, no fucking _way_ brah. You gotta get in the scrum.”

 

Eric’s listless echo of “Scrum?” is altogether lost as Shitty begins to steer him through the crowd into the adjoining room of the basement. Sure enough, it is set up for a band: drum kit, guitars waiting in stands, keyboard, microphones. There is nothing to separate the instruments from the crowd which is filtering in from the other room, no stage to speak of to elevate the band. Shitty positions them front and center, about two feet back from one of the microphones, and stands at Eric’s back.

“Prepare to have your mind fucking _blown_.”

 

As they stand, the audience fills in around them, and Eric is suddenly glad for their position. After a few minutes, some guys break through the crush of bodies and take the stage, assuming positions and instruments. There are whistles and cheers, some clapping, and (from Shitty) a yell of “Fuck yeah!”

 

Eric finds himself pushed forward a step as the crowd surges a little, but Shitty appears prepared for this and absorbs most of the movement.

 

Without warning, without announcement, the band starts playing, and it is _loud_. It’s frantic, a heavy throb in the drums and a deep roar in the guitar, the singing more shouting than hitting notes. Still, it’s recognizably musical, with highs and lows and harmonies and it’s making Eric want to dance. It’s making Eric want to know the words the way that Shitty and the others do, shouting them over his head. He’s getting jostled frequently from behind, but it’s not that imposing and he doesn’t really mind. It, more than anything, is filling him with more energy, making him want to jump and throw his arms up and scream at the top of his lungs. The crowd is loving it, is living it, is completely taken with everything that happens on the makeshift stage. They’re loyal, and passionate, and know all the songs and all the words. Eric can see why; the band has an organic quality, and are more than just noise. They sound young, but they sound vital, and they sound like they’re telling a story and like they want Eric, like they want him specifically, to listen to it and feel what they are feeling. Within a few songs, Eric _is_ dancing, is thrashing around, feels himself getting hotter and hotter with the force of his movements and the sheer _excitement_ in what he’s hearing. He feels Shitty moving behind him, feels maybe there’s something more violent happening in the audience, but it doesn’t matter in the slightest right now: Eric is dancing. There’s a refrain, a series of repeated lines, and on the third come-around Eric is yelling along too, feeling his throat going raw, pointing into the air, turning to grin at Shitty through the lyrics, and he’s alive, he’s _alive_.

 

* * *

 

 

Eric is buzzing when the band finishes, is blathering and gushing as Shitty uses a firm grip on his shoulder to guide him through the milling groups and out to the stairwell. The stairs are narrow, and creak despite the carpet, the murals trailing out of the basement and up, up, up. It looks like the only room not slathered in paint is the front room, the unassuming tunnel leading down the rabbit hole. Eric lets his fingers trail over a mosaic made out of newspaper clippings before Shitty pulls him on to the second landing and into a similarly technicolored hallway.

 

He slides Eric in front of him and towards a door midway down the hall, reaching around Eric’s waist to grip the doorknob.

“Ok, don’t let the cat out,” he instructs as he pushes the door and Eric at the same time, forcing the two of them inside the room before quickly slamming the door behind them. There is actually a cat, a black one with white socks, perched on a bar fridge immediately across from the door, poised and ready to leap out the slightest available opening. At the slam of the door, it slumps and trickles to the floor to pad through to what seems to be a bathroom.

 

The room is decently sized, bigger even than Bitty’s shared dorm, with a bed nestled beneath the window. There is a wintry forest tapestry pinned on one russet wall, framing a sagging vinyl couch. Upon the couch, there is one guy and one girl. The girl is small and curled up on the couch not unlike a cat. Her hair is chopped and riotous, and her eyeliner is sharp and threatening in a way that accentuates the shape of her eyes – eyes which are decidedly glassy. She wears a paint-splattered crew-neck sweater with the sleeves rolled up, and what seems to be a pair of denim cut-offs. She’s fiddling with a lighter, trying to connect a spark to the joint that dangles from her lips.

 

The guy is undoubtedly larger, strong biceps rounding out tangles of roses, bold and darker against his deep skin. A look at his face, at those striking cheekbones, shows this is the one who had answered the front door when Eric and Shitty had arrived. A better look at him reveals he has a ring through the middle of his nose, and something roaring tattooed on the side of his shaved head, just like Holster. With bandaged fingers, nails painted starkly white, he reaches out to take the lighter from the girl.

 

“Bits, this is Ransom and Lardo.”

 

Shitty drops himself onto the bed as the guy leans up and out of the sofa, hand outstretched to Eric. He takes it, feeling callouses on the fingertips resting on the back of his hand.

“Ransom,” he says, and lets himself fall back on to the sofa.

“Eric. Or, well. Bitty, I guess.”

Ransom flashes a smile at him, and Eric can only blink back, because it’s quite truly dazzling.

 

“Bits popped his gig cherry tonight,” Shitty pipes up from the bed. He pats the bedspread next to him, and Eric settles himself down gingerly.

“Well – I mean, I’ve been to music gigs before, but. Um. I guess I did.”

Ransom whistles, an impressed noise, and Lardo says “ugh, fucking _jealous_ bro.”

“Wish I could’ve seen MoBo my first show. That’s some transcendent shit, right bro?”

Eric has been called ‘bro’ more in the past few hours than he has in his entire life. Still, he can’t help but nod with enthusiasm at Ransom’s comment.

“It was amazing. I mean, I was telling Shitty, I’ve never heard music like that before. And the _energy_ in the room, it was something else entirely. I’ve never been interested in anything remotely – um, hardcore, or punk or whatever, but that whole experience was just… amazing! Completely amazing. I mean, I’m totally speechless still.”

He’s being grinned at by three people, and Lardo replies with “ _sweet_ , dude.” She doesn’t seem to say much, but Eric decides he likes her.

 

“Bitty plays piano,” Shitty supplies idly, reaching out a hand that prompts Lardo to rise out of her seat and pass him the joint. Inexplicably, Ransom lets out a holler that runs the line between disbelieving and elated. Eric jolts, the sound about as startling as a car backfiring. As Lardo settles back, she throws a knowing look at Shitty and hums agreeably.

“Do… do y’all play anything?” Eric knows he sounds timid. He’s feeling scrutinized. The reality of his situation – sitting in a room in a frat house, with three strangers, all smoking illegal drugs – settles suddenly and heavily upon him.

“I play bass,” Ransom replies, and his voice his happy and tinged with enough excitement that Eric starts to feel a little calmer. Or maybe it’s the second-hand smoke he’s probably inhaling.

“And I play guitar, and have been known to sing a lick or two.”

“You can’t fuckin’ call that singing, Shits. I don’t know why we let you do it, to be honest.”

“Oh, you’re in Shitty’s band?”

Ransom makes an outraged noise, and Lardo cackles a little as she re-adjusts herself on the sofa, tucking her knees underneath her sweater.

“If it’s anyone’s band, it’s Jack’s band – fuck knows how that happened, seeing as it existed before he rocked up – but no. We are in a band _together_. Unfortunately for me.”

Eric starts to ask “Who is Jack?” when he’s interrupted – rather violently – by the door slamming open. The cat, hitherto lurking in the bathroom, takes the opportunity to streak out the door. The action is accompanied by a rage-filled chorus of “Holster!” from Ransom and Lardo, and a wrathful “ _Fuck_ , Holtzy!” from Shitty. Holster freezes in the doorway, looking out into the hall to where the cat, presumably, ran.

“Shit. _Mea culpa_ , bros.”

“Jack is gonna fuckin’ murder you, dude.”

“Yeah, yeah yeah,” Ransom agrees, head nodding vigorously, eyes wide with astonishment.

 

Holster contemplates this for a moment before stepping into the room and drawing the door carefully shut behind him.

“It’s probably just run up to the attic, grouchy fucker. Pets are a reflection of their owners.”

“Oh, so Hab is talking to MoBo about their amps as well?”

Holster guffaws good-naturedly, and goes to wedge his way between Ransom and Lardo on the couch. It seems like an impossible feat, given his size, until Lardo twists herself sideways and extracts her legs from her sweater to throw them over Holster’s lap. Ransom copies her with one of his legs, and they end up a comfortable pile of people. Eric is starting to realize that this, this tactility and comfort with each other, is what is missing from his current friendships. Something in the depths of his gut aches a little.

 

“Bitty! You’re here. How did you like MoBo, bro?”

“Loved it,” Ransom answers for him.

“ _Amazing_ , right Bits?” Lardo supplies.

Bitty is aware he’s slightly being made fun of, but there’s a tinge of affection in it. He feels his face heat marginally, and giggles in a self-conscious way.

“Bitty plays piano,” Shitty says again. He seems intent on informing everyone in the house of this fact. Once again, it garners an overly excited response: Holster makes a noise not unlike the one Ransom made before. He also throws out a hand and slaps Ransom heavily on the chest.

“Ow, _fuck_ bro,” Ransom protests, but he goes ignored.

“Fuck you Bitty, you didn’t tell me that before!”

“You didn’t ask?” Eric says it like a question. His confusion is building rapidly by the minute.

“Shits, hey, Bitty should –“

“Yeah, what the fuck do you think I’m like, Holtzy? As if I hadn’t thought of that, ya mad dog. _Christ_.”

 

It’s too much.

“ _What_? What’re y’all talking about? If you want me to do something, just –“

“They need a keyboard player,” Lardo interjects, calm and with an exhale of smoke from her re-acquired joint.

Eric is silent. He isn’t quite sure what to say, or every truly what he’s being asked. He tries to start a few sentences, but only manages to come out with “Sorry?”

“We’ve been writing some shit that we think will sound better with some keys, and like, it’s fucking _hard_ to find someone who knows how to play and, like, gets what we’re tryna do.”

“I’m not sure that I do,” Eric admits, slowly.

Shitty makes a vaguely impatient noise. “Yeah, brah, you totally do. All that shit you were saying to me about how the band made you feel? And, like, with everything you’ve ever said to me, you’ve got the right _attitude_. About _life_ and shit. And I fuckin’ saw you out there, dancing. You got moves.”

“But you don’t even know if I can play.”

Shitty’s voice is the definition of _incredulous_ as he bellows “You’re on a fucking scholarship,” which makes Ransom, Holster, and Lardo sound a reverent chorus of “bro”s.

“But.” Eric bites his lip, feeling decidedly small and uncertain. He’s aware of how much he stands out here, how ostentatious and _square_ he seems in comparison to all these rugged punk-types. He buttons his shirts; none of his jeans have holes; he doesn’t own a single pair of boots. There’s only one way he can really sum it up. “I’m not punk.”

 

Three mouths open at once, retorts ready to spill out into the room, when the door once again flies open. The emotion behind it, however, is not exuberance; it’s straight up irritation. The figure behind it is wearing a Pens jersey, a pair of knee-length cutoffs, and a livid expression.

 

He is clutching Hab in his arms.

 

“Who the fuck let out my cat?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is probably impossible for Bitty to be seeing Modern Baseball (MoBo) at a house show in 2015, seeing as they'd hit it pretty big by then, but seeing them in 2012 in a basement was one of the best gigs I've ever been to and I wanted to give him that experience.
> 
> Additionally, yes, Jack's cat is named Hab after the Montréal Canadiens. The band is also called "Soft Hands," which for anyone not hockey literate is a term used to refer to a player who is good at stick handling. This boy.


	2. i dreamt of you in montreal

 

The room freezes. They all stay looking at Bitty, jaws clenched and eyes wide with something akin to fear. Holster hisses “ _Scatter_ ” out of the corner of his mouth. Lardo hisses back “ _He’s blocking the doorway, dipshit_.”

 

The newcomer is, indeed, still looming in the door, holding his cat. He kicks the door shut, making a pointed bang, and steps further into the room. His lower legs, exposed between his cutoffs and black Vans, are a patchwork of bold and black tattoos; the arms wrapped around Hab are the same. Eric’s not an expert, but looking at the differences between Shitty’s tattoos and this man’s, Shitty’s seem more cramped, more layered, more chaotic. The collage of images across this guy’s skin appears carefully planned, each shape fitting against the others like puzzle pieces, or a precisely curated art gallery.

 

Eric also can’t help but notice that, underneath the expression of outright rage, the guy’s face is good. Like, really good. He has _cheekbones_ and a _jawline_ and _sharply_ blue eyes. There is a part of Eric, in the very back of his brain, that thinks “ _oh, yes_.” Most of him, however, is understandably nervous; the guy looks enraged.

 

“Jacques! Hey, babe.” Shitty doesn’t get a reply; ‘Jacques’ is looking at the three on the couch with gradually narrowing eyes. “Hey _babe_. Babe. Babe, hey. Babe. Babe. Baby. _Babe!_ ”

“Fuck, Shits, _what?_ ”

“This is Bitty.” Shitty claps a hand on Eric’s shoulder, presenting him like a set of steak knives in an infomercial. Eric turns wide, horrified eyes on him. The last thing he wants is to become a target of Jacques’ frankly terrifying ire. Unfortunately, he does look over, face melting into blank disinterest as he lands gaze on Eric.

“Don’t try to change the subject,” he tells Shitty irritably, and goes back to glaring at Ransom, Holster, and Lardo on the couch.

 

Lardo seems the only one unaffected by any of what’s happening; she has taken out her phone and is scrolling through something with abject focus. She would seem entirely disengaged from the room, if not for the way she blithely comments “It was Holster,” without even looking up.

 

Both Ransom and Holster devolve into yelling, the only phrases Eric can discern being “Et tu, Lardo?” and “Betrayal!” They seem not to have noticed that Jacques has set Hab down on the floor – it trails once again into the bathroom – and is watching them both with a new sense of calmness.

“Holster,” he says, low but clear. They both look to him, mouths open mid-word. Eric unconsciously shifts a little closer to Shitty on the bed. “You let my cat out in a Haus full of drunk strangers and an unsecured show setup.”

“Yeah, who is supervising all that, by the way? We’re all up here…”

“I got everyone out already. Don’t try to change the subject,” Jacques replies without even looking over to Shitty. His laser-like focus would be impressive to Eric if it weren’t so unsettling.

“Hey, see? No harm done, if everyone’s left,” Ransom tries, using a tone not unlike a police negotiator might.

“Shut up, Ransom. He knows the rules. Say your goodbyes now; there’s not going to be much left of him in a minute.”

 

As Jacques steps towards the couch, Lardo idly stands up and wanders over to the bed, eyes still trained on her phone. She settles down next to Eric. Ransom, on the other hand, scrambles over the arm of the couch, seeming to abandon all loyalty in his desire to put as much distance between himself and Holster as possible. Holster, to his credit, raises his hands in a pacifying gesture and starts to say “Come on, buddy, let’s talk –“ before Jacques launches himself at the couch and immediately puts Holster into what looks like a startlingly secure headlock.

 

Though Holster is undoubtedly taller, Jacques appears to be slightly stronger, making the two of them fairly evenly matched. They tussle in a way that makes the couch groan beneath them, and Eric is honestly astounded that it manages to sustain the weight of two healthily-grown men in this way. At one point, Holster is sitting on top of Jacques with his arms pinned, until Jacques maneuvers his legs somehow and shunts Holster to the floor. He lands with a resounding crash, making Eric glad that the rest of the house is apparently empty: if that noise hadn’t been enough to attract the concern of anyone who might’ve been inside, the way Ransom and Shitty are shouting encouragement certainly would be. It’s vaguely exhilarating. There’s something joyful about the way Jacques wrestles with Holster, something affectionate that gets Eric giggling along with Lardo’s quiet chuckles. The anger, it seems, was mostly all pretense.

 

Jacques climbs off the couch to bend over Holster, and starts tugging at his shirt, apparently aiming to trap his arms inside the fabric. It does do the trick, and also serves to expose the waistband of Holster’s boxers. Just as quickly, Jacques drops down onto Holster’s back and grabs his underwear with both hands, already partway through the motion of jerking it up in what would surely be a fertility-compromising wedgie. It’s then that Holster yells out, “Uncle! Shit, Jack, uncle! Leave my balls alone, please!”

 

Involuntarily, Eric says, “Oh, you’re _Jack!_ ”

 

He says it loud.

 

Jack pauses, and Holster stops struggling in his prone position, his arms still tangled. They both look over to the bed where Eric sits between Shitty and Lardo. Well, Eric assumes Holster is looking; Holster’s face is obscured by this shirt. Jack frowns at Eric, and Eric immediately snaps his mouth shut.

“I am. What’s he doing here?” Jack says this second part to Shitty, all previous hints of enjoyment gone, his voice taking on a monotone quality.

“This is Bitty.”

“Yeah, you said that. What’s he doing here?” Jack repeats, still holding on to Holster’s underwear.

“He plays piano,” Ransom pipes up from his resumed position on the couch, the excitement from before back in his tone.

 

The look Jack lays on Eric is probing and visibly skeptical. His eyes – now sharp in a _different_ way to what Eric had noticed before – sweep over Eric’s general person. They seem unimpressed. He doesn’t say anything, but climbs off of Holster and drops down next to Ransom on the couch with his arms folded across his chest. As a gesture, it screams _dismissive_. Eric bristles.

“I have a music scholarship.” He’s aware he sounds defensive, childish, but it seems warranted in the face of Jack’s unrestrained rudeness.

“Were you here for the show?”

“Yes! It was incredible, I just loved how –“

“Have you ever played anything like that before?”

Eric hates the way his eyes drop away from Jack’s, hates the way he feels his cheeks heating up. It stings. He shakes his head. When he looks back, Jack is levelling him with a significant stare.

 

“Yeah, so fucking what, brah?” Shitty nudges Eric in what is clearly meant to be a comforting gesture. “Haven’t you ever seen ‘School of Rock’? We just gotta Jack Black this shit.”

“Have you heard him play?” Jack sounds weary now, irritation returned to his words.

“No,” Shitty admits, and Jack raises his eyebrows pointedly at him. “But! Isn’t that what practice is for? He can come along tomorrow, fuck around on some of the new shit.”

 

It’s silent in the room for a series of moments, Jack and Shitty apparently holding a silent conversation through equally blank facial expressions. Lardo huffs a laugh at something on her phone.

“Okay,” Jack finally says. He looks back to Eric, who tries to steel his face as best he can. He isn’t sure he succeeds. “Do you have a keyboard?”

“I play _piano_ ,” Eric says, slowly. Holster, who has by now definitely righted himself and is sitting on the floor leaning against the couch, snorts a laugh which he covers in a cough. Eric smiles a little, quietly satisfied.

 

Jack closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. It’s such a condescending gesture, speaks – to Eric – of such entitlement and superiority that Eric almost tells him to fuck off.

“ _Fine_ , I have one you can use. But if this sticks, you’re going to have to sort that out. You need your own equipment.”

“Of course you have a fuckin’ keyboard,” Shitty mutters, but it goes largely unnoticed. Ransom and Holster seem to have lost interest in everything happening, and Ransom is rubbing Holster’s shoulders. Lardo is still fiddling with her phone. Unprompted, she stands and makes for the door, disappearing into the hall with a “Later” cast over her shoulder.

 

That seems enough of a cue for everyone else. Holster and Ransom also stand, making a show of clapping Eric on the back and ruffling his hair before heading off to wherever their rooms are. Jack stays sitting, but Shitty lurches to his feet and nudges Eric on his way. He says “ _okay_ ” in a leading and drawn-out way, shoving his hands into his pockets and rocking on his heels a little. When Jack doesn’t say anything, he continues.

“I’m gonna walk Bitty back to his dorm. Will you be up when I get back?”

“It’s late.”

“Alright, brah. I hear ya. See you tomorrow, yeah?”

Jack grunts, already up and heading over to his closet. Shitty sighs and ushers Eric to the door, casting a quick glance to the bathroom for any sign of Hab before they slip out to the hallway.

 

Eric follows Shitty listlessly back through the Haus, down the collaged stairway and into the incongruously blank entrance. There’s something buzzing in his ears and he can’t quite grasp onto anything except a general feeling of indignation. He doesn’t even have the wherewithal to stop Shitty from chaperoning his journey home. It’s cold out, and Eric’s shirt really isn’t doing anything to help. He can’t remember why he didn’t bring a jacket.

 

“Sorry about Jack.”

 

Eric sniffs and wraps his arms around his middle. He wants to tell Shitty that it’s fine, but it’s really not. What he says instead is, “Do you always apologize for him?”

Shitty chuckles mildly. “Not always. He’s not usually so… I don’t fuckin’ know, brah. Like, he gets real intense about music and shit. I get it, it’s what makes him such a goddamn genius, but it makes him seem like a total asshole. He’s not, by the way.”

Eric makes a skeptical noise. Shitty laughs again.

“He’s just like a bitchy little dickhead now because we’re trying something new with the band, and he wants it to turn out good. It’s not personal.”

“It _feels_ personal.”

The sigh Shitty makes seems defeated. “Yeah, I will admit that was a special brand of douchebaggery. Haven’t _quite_ seen him like that before. Well, there was…” He trails off, contemplative, and they walk in silence for a few steps before he crows out “Fuck!” with renewed enthusiasm. Startled, Eric yelps “oh my God!”

 

“Bitty, my guy.” Shitty pulls Eric against his side with an affectionate arm around his shoulders, jostling him playfully. Eric is cast back to Jack’s room, the careless tumble of Ransom, Holster, and Lardo on the brown couch. “First DIY gig! In your first band! Exciting times, little buddy. Ah, to be young again.”

“You’re only a senior,” Eric protests, trying ineffectually to disentangle himself before his hair is made into more of a disaster.

 

They stop outside of Eric’s building, the fluorescence of the lobby lights casting a pale square onto the footpath. Shitty stands in front of Eric and rests both hands heavily on his shoulders.

“I relinquish you to the safety of this bland and lifeless cinderblock dorm, before curfew and un-assaulted.”

“I don’t have a curfew. And I think my hair would disagree about the second part.”

Shitty grins, shakes Eric by the shoulders a little, and turns on his heel to stroll back to the Haus. Eric’s hand is barely on the door handle when he hears “Hey, Bitty!” yelled from a distance. He turns.

 

Walking backwards, Shitty cups his hands around his mouth.

“You’re punk as fuck!”

 

Bitty grins.

 

* * *

 

 

Having never been to a band practice (he’s been to _rehearsal_ , which is a completely different thing), Bitty hadn’t been sure what kind of baked good would be most appropriate. To cover his bases, he had made cherry mini pies and coconut Florentines. A little bit of chocolate is never a wrong choice.

 

He had thought maybe he should do something about his appearance. Grunge it up a bit. Unfortunately, he apparently doesn’t own anything black (aside from his recital suit, and – well, _no_ ), neither anything band-related. He had decided to just ignore the niggling doubt in the back of his mind and wear what he would wear any old place. Apparently, today that was a Bruins shirsey and jeans.

 

As he pulls the shirsey over his head and throws it into the corner of his room, he’s not thinking about Jack and his Pens jersey. He’s not.

 

He’s _also_ not thinking about the look of complete disinterest Jack had greeted him with upon opening the door to the Haus.

 

It hadn’t been a good start, and should’ve really been a hint that Bitty’s work was well cut out for him. As he face-plants onto his bed and lets out the bone-rattling sigh he feels he’s been keeping in all day, he realizes he is _exhausted_. Something about a barrage of criticism will do that to a guy.

 

He’s _not_ going to cry about some mean things some punk asshole said. He’s not. It’s just that today had been a complete waste of mini pies and Florentines.

 

He sniffs.

 

He’s got his pillow clamped over his face and something decidedly _not_ punk playing over his speakers when there’s a knock on the door. The sound Bitty makes is somewhere between a groan and a sob, because this is just _perfect_. He’s in half a mind to ignore it when the knock comes again. The manner in which he rolls off his bed and stomps over to the door could be described as ‘petulant.’

 

Lardo doesn’t seem phased when he yanks it open and tersely demands “Yes?” before he realizes it’s her. He stumbles over an apology just as quickly, but she waves it off with a casual hand – the only one she has free, as there’s a keyboard clamped under her other arm.

“I’ll bring the stand over later,” she says as she notices him eyeing the instrument.

“What is that?” Bitty doesn’t mean to sound so abrupt, it’s just. After the practice that afternoon, he can’t think of any logical reason why Lardo would be bringing him anything musical.

“This is a keyboard, Bits. Come on. Try harder.”

Despite himself Bitty laughs a little, the giggle falling out of his mouth with surprise more than anything else. “Thanks, Lardo. I’ve never seen one before. I mean… why did you bring it here?”

“Jack asked me to bring it over. And this bitch is heavier than it looks and I had to walk the whole way, so can I…?” She trails off with a significant glance into the room behind Bitty. He nearly falls over himself to step out of her way.

“Of _course_ , I’m sorry. Come in.”

 

Lardo deposits the keyboard on Bitty’s bed along with the tote bag that had been swinging from her shoulder, and settles herself next to it. He closes the door and goes to sit in the wheelie chair at his desk, suddenly unsure what to do with his hands. He settles for resting them on his knees, feeling observed and unnatural. Stiff. He clears his throat.

“Lardo, thank you, but I just don’t… I don’t understand why Jack would tell you to bring me a keyboard. After today, it’s pretty clear. He hates me.”

Lardo clicks her tongue and lifts her leg to untie her sneakers. When she’s down to her socks, she re-adjusts herself to sit cross-legged on Bitty’s bed.

“I’m not going to make excuses for him, because he was fucking awful to you today. No lies about that.”

Bitty makes a sarcastic noise. Jack’s relentless criticism of everything Bitty played could only barely be called constructive; Bitty’s of the opinion that “awful” is an understatement.

“My college audition was easier than today.”

Lardo smiles at him. “You killed it, Bits. Everyone knows piano isn’t the same as keyboard. Jack’s more than aware of that.” She squints at him for a moment, appraising. Bitty’s feeling of being scrutinized isn’t alleviating. “I don’t want to, like, drive out of my lane, but I just feel like you should know. About Jack, I mean. You’re going to hear it anyway; he probably thinks you already know. Maybe that’s why he’s being so… yeah.”

 

Bitty feels his heart tick up, like he’s nervous, though he’s not sure why he would be. Jack’s uncompromising disapproval of everything about Bitty seems to make him loom threateningly every time he’s mentioned. He‘s quite sure Jack wouldn’t be all too happy to know Bitty had learned personal information about him.

“I don’t know, Lardo. Jack probably wouldn’t like it.”

“Bits, it’s not a deep dark secret. You could find this out online if you were the stalkery type.”

Bitty titters nervously, trying not to make it obvious that after the previous night, he had searched for Jack on Facebook and found nothing. Lardo raises her eyebrows knowingly at him, but thankfully doesn’t mention it.

 

“So. Our boy Jack. I know you like hockey, so this might actually mean something to you, unlike the rest of us. His dad is Bob Zimmermann?”

When Bitty was in high school and only just getting in to hockey, this would have sailed over his head. But that was before. Now, however.

 

“Oh my fucking _God_.”

 

“Oh, good, that saves me some explanation. So, like, yeah. Jack played hockey as a kid, and he was apparently really good? I don’t know, Shitty says there are a bunch of medals and trophies and shit up in his parents’ house in Montreal. Anyway, when he was like thirteen or fourteen he got injured and totally fucked up his knee.” Bitty can’t quite contain the gasp he makes. Lardo nods at him gravely. “Fucking right, Bits. He picked up guitar after he couldn’t play any more.”

 

Bitty senses there’s something missing from this story, something slightly out of tune, but he doesn’t want to pry further. The concept of thwarted dreams sits heavily enough on him.

 

“Like I said, not making excuses. But, yeah. Dude’s intense.”

 

Not sure what to say, Bitty just nods in agreement. His eyes drift to the keyboard where it sits, falsely innocuous, on his bed. A part of his mind burns strongly with the urge to probe further, to plumb Lardo’s friendship with Jack for any details that might explain the full extent of why he’s apparently decided to straight up loathe everything about what Bitty happens to be. He figures that “But why did he send you with the keyboard?” is a more appropriate question.

 

“He says you need practice.”

“But he doesn’t want me in the band, Lardo.”

Lardo snorts and rolls her eyes. “I know why you would get that impression, but as soon as you left he started pulling sheets for keyboard parts. Here.” She drags her bag into her lap and reaches inside. The bag itself is plain calico with a feminist symbol stamped across it. On closer inspection, Bitty realizes the circle is actually a pizza.

 

Lardo extracts a wad of folded papers from the depths of the bag, and holds them out. Bitty takes them gingerly and opens them up. The amount of chords over individual notes is slightly daunting.

“I can’t believe I’m going to have to start restricting myself to seventy-six keys.”

“Ye _ah_ ,” Lardo says, drawing it out, “I really don’t know anything about that. More power to you.”

“You don’t play anything?” Bitty’s starting to feel a bit more at ease; he draws his knees up to mirror Lardo’s cross-legged position. She seems to find the question a little funny.

“Nah, brah. My art medium is entirely visual. I make the boys shirts and patches and shit. Watch the merch stand at their shows. Try and be some sort of manager.”

 

Bitty is wildly impressed that she is able to exercise any level of control of those boys – boys who had destroyed the mini-pies he’d brought in a matter of seconds, making noises that were frankly indecent. He tells her as much, and despite her flippant shrug, there’s a little bit of color in her cheeks. It’s this more than anything that makes Bitty feel bold, connected. While it’s not on the grandiose level of Shitty throwing an arm around him and ruffling his hair, Lardo’s slight blush seems to scream just as loudly: she does actually like Bitty. He throws all caution to the wind, leaning forward and bracing himself on his knees.

 

“I’m so out of my depth, Lardo.” Bitty’s aware he sounds confessional, a little desperate. He needs her to tell him it’ll be okay; she seems so certain about everything. She doesn’t, however, appear to able to comfort him. She leans forward in a mirror of Bitty’s movement and breathes out, “ _Dude_. Tell me about it.” Somehow, the solidarity does the trick more than platitudes might have. Bitty smiles at her, and she smiles back. Though they’d been ignoring it until now, the Beyoncé playing over Bitty’s speakers suddenly seems louder. Lardo quirks her head towards the source of the noise and raises a wry eyebrow.

“You _really_ better not let Jack know you listen to Bey.” Bitty can’t quite tell if she’s joking; he forces a huff of a laugh, but it sounds strangled even to him. “Actually, I’m not sure he even knows who Bey is. You’re probably safe.”

“The first time I heard anything punk was last night. I mean, I love it, I do, but I just don’t – I mean, it was a show in a basement in a frat house. I can’t just turn on the radio and start Shazaming songs, can I?”

“Nah, probs not. Look, how about I link you a playlist? You can begin your musical education. I mean, tee-bee-eff Jack is probably making you study materials right now, but he’ll be weird about it and make you read notes on, like, the chord progressions and the lyric structure or some shit. I’ll just send you some crap that sounds tight.”

 

Bitty’s so grateful he could hug her. He’s halfway out of his chair before he remembers that he’s only known her for twenty-four hours – a hug might be moving too quickly. He stops, one leg awkwardly on the ground and arms hoisting him out of his chair. Thankfully, Lardo seems to catch on and holds her arms out wide.

 

“Bring it in, bro.”

 

She hugs warmly and tightly, and doesn’t mention the way Bitty clings a little as she starts to move away. She pats him on the arm when he finally steps back, and Bitty feels his chest flood with affection. _This is it_ , he thinks. _This is the feeling_.

 

“I’ve gotta bounce, Bits. But, hey, swing by the Haus tomorrow. We can go get froyo or something.” She pulls her sneakers back on and hoists her tote bag onto her shoulder, then pauses. “And I don’t want to overstep or anything, but those teeny pies you brought today fucking _crushed_ it. I would, like, chop off my foot for another one of those.”

“It’d be my pleasure.”

She punches him lightly and affectionately in the arm, then turns towards the door. Seeing the back of her jacket, emblazoned with a logo that reads _Bikini Kill_ , jerks something in his memory.

 

“Oh, Lardo! Before you go – I forgot to ask. What’s the band called?”

Lardo halts in the doorway, and looks back at Bitty with a wrinkled nose. “It’s a weird name, dude. Something to do with hockey? Jack picked it, I don’t get it. Shitty thinks it’s a dirty joke, so it stuck. Soft Hands.”

 

Some sort of weight knocks free from his throat, and Lardo’s eyebrows fly into her hairline as Bitty laughs.

 


	3. too distant to see where i went wrong

 

Bitty is jerked from the depths of his sleep on Monday morning by an insistent knocking on his door.

 

His mouth is gummy, and there’s a crust of drool at the corner of his lips. He blinks blearily into the dark, momentary disorientation caused, for sure, by the fact he’d apparently fallen asleep with his head at the end of his bed. His headphones are still, somehow, on his ears, although knocked a little askew. He’d been lying the wrong way to be closer to his desk, headphones trailing to his laptop, which was playing through the discographies of whatever punk gems Lardo had sent him. Now, though, it was silent, the music long since over.

 

The knocking comes again, and Bitty snatches at his headphones, scrambling to untangle his limbs from the nest of blankets and pillows he’d arranged for himself. A snuffle from the depths of the room tells him that whoever _is_ at the door, it’s not his cryptid of a roommate, who Bitty has yet to see awake and talking. Thinking a midnight wake-up call is not the best way to introduce himself to the guy, Bitty rolls himself out of bed and stumbles his way to the door before _whoever_ can knock a third time.

 

He does indeed open it to a raised fist which nearly collides itself with his face before its owner realizes the much-assaulted door has been opened, and drops the hand. Bitty still finds himself jerking back on reflex. He gathers himself and squints at the visitor, illuminated by the hospital-brightness of the hallway lights.

 

Backwards cap and a t-shirt bearing a photo of a hockey brawl, looking inexplicably awake, it’s Jack Zimmermann.

“Bittle.”

Bitty narrows his eyes, suspicious, and can’t help his uncertainty from entering his tone. “Jack?”

“Get dressed and come with me.”

 

Bitty almost moves to comply without questioning the order, before he remembers that the _moon_ is up and he’s under no obligation to do anything Jack says. He plants his feet and folds his arms. The effect is somewhat diminished, he knows, by the fact he’s in his pajamas. With each look of utter disdain Jack gives him, Bitty gets closer to telling him to fuck right off. He manages it implicitly in the icy way he asks, “Where are we going?”

 

Jack slides his hands into his pockets with a series of jerky movements, clearly holding back on something, and sets his jaw before gritting out in a stilted manner, “Practice room.”

“What for?”

“To practice _keyboard_ , Christ Bittle, will you please just come?”

Bitty decidedly does not move for a few more moments, before holding up a finger and saying “Wait.” He closes the door in Jack’s face, secure in the knowledge that he isn’t going anywhere any time soon, and takes his sweet time getting dressed by the light of his phone torch.

 

When he emerges from his room, jeans and tucked-in check shirt, Jack is leaning against the wall opposite the door, hands still jammed in his pockets. He nods once at Bitty, before turning and striding off down the hall. Bitty fumbles his key, locks the door, and jogs a little to catch up to Jack’s excessively long gait.

 

On exiting into the early-morning air – Bitty had established that it was _four in the a.m._ and Jack was apparently some kind of insomniac – Bitty can’t help the sharp intake of breath he makes. It’s cold. Really, really fucking cold. Still jogging slightly to keep pace with Jack, he throws a glare at him. Bitty would not be out in sub-zero temperatures without a jacket if not for Jack wearing a literal t-shirt and shorts and suggesting it was balmy in the air.

“What all is wrong with you?” he mutters, thoroughly not intending Jack to hear.

However, in addition to not sleeping nor feeling the cold, Jack apparently has superhuman hearing.

“What did you say?”

“It’s goddamn freezing out, and you’re runnin’ around in a pair of jorts. Aside from the questionable fashion decision, you’re just tempting fate there.”

“We’re going to be back inside in two minutes, Bittle. Tough it out.”

“Do you even _own_ a pair of full-length pants? Or did you just buy them all at age ten and not buy anything new since? They’re not actually shorts, they’re just children’s jeans.”

 

Bitty is sure he must be hallucinating when Jack’s lips twitch into some bare, momentary semblance of a smile.

 

“At least I don’t sleep in a Bruins shirt. When did you jump on that bandwagon? 2011?”

Bitty snorts. “If it were a bandwagon, don’t you think I’d pick some team like, oh, I don’t know… the _Pittsburgh Penguins_? Bunch’a _show-ponies_ , I swear…”

Jack snorts back at him. “Hey, just because they’re out there playing intelligent hockey. But, sure, go for brawn over brains.”

Bitty can’t help the indignant noise he makes, skipping a few steps forward so he can turn and walk backwards, facing Jack to make his outrage properly known. He jabs an accusing finger at Jack’s t-shirt.

“’Violent Gents?’” he reads incredulously, spurred on by Jack’s vaguely smug expression. “I don’t know about y’all up north here, but where I’m from we got a little saying about _pots_ and _kettles_.”

 

He sees Jack’s eyebrows raise, and has a moment of gleeful self-satisfaction before his heels connect with the curb.

 

Jack snatches at him with both tattooed hands, and Bitty snatches back, managing to grab on to Jack’s elbows. In turn, Jack’s fingers clamp around Bitty’s biceps, and though his feet tangle and the jar of the almost-trip leaves him with a bitten tongue, Bitty doesn’t end up on the ground.

He stands there, fingertips digging into Jack’s skin, breathing heavily around the surge of adrenaline from what was surely a near-death experience. Jack keeps hold of his arms, and ducks so their faces are level. His expression is blank, but his eyes are wide.

“Are you okay?”

 

Bitty looks back. Jack’s eyes are clear. Very clear, almost crystalline. His pupils are blown out wide in the darkness of the early morning. Between his eyebrows, there is a faint – _very_ faint – furrow. Some hysterical part of Bitty’s brain registers it as concern.

 

He steps away from Jack’s hands, reaching automatically to pat him on the chest as he does so. _Thank you_. Too late does he realize what he’s done. Jack straightens, and his hands return to his pockets. Bitty wraps his arms around his middle, and sucks his bottom lip into his mouth. His eyes drop to the ground: to his own sneakers and the rolled cuffs of his jeans; Jack’s ubiquitous black Vans and ink-adorned shins. Staring as he is, he can make out the words _I DREAMT OF YOU IN MONTRÉAL_ in a speech bubble emerging from what appears to be a skull. He can’t stop looking, even when Jack coughs uncomfortably.

 

“Right. Well. We’re here.”

 

Bitty finally unsticks his eyes from Jack’s leg and meets his face. Jack aims a nod behind Bitty; they have, indeed, reached the music building. Jack strides off again without another word, using an ID card to swipe in and holding the door open for Bitty before making a beeline down the corridor.

 

Their destination is one Bitty is quite familiar with – a practice studio, one where freshmen were usually forced to by virtue of it having slightly worse acoustics than the rest of the building, but slightly better soundproofing. Among the upperclassmen, it was referred to as The Back End. Bitty had had it explained to him thus: you couldn’t hear shit coming out of there, and if you could, you probably didn’t want to.

 

Personally, he preferred to call it _the practice room at the end of the hall._

 

He can’t help the twinge of offense he feels as Jack ushers him in.

 

“What are we doing in here?”

“Practicing.” Jack carefully guides the door shut, then strides to retrieve a keyboard from the cluster of instruments nudged off to one side.

“Yes, obviously, but why in The Back – I mean. Why in _this_ room?”

Jack throws him a raised eyebrow, then goes back to fiddling with the keyboard stand. “It’s four-thirty, Bittle. It was hard enough getting permission to use a room this early, let alone if we made a racket.”

“A _racket_ ,” Bitty repeats heatedly, but concedes. There is some sort of deep-covered courtesy in Jack’s logic. “But why do we gotta be here this early, anyway? God, I can barely _see straight_ , my body still thinks it’s asleep.”

“You’ve got to make sacrifices if you want to improve. Sleep-ins are fine, if you don’t mind not progressing. You’ve never had a reason to get up before dawn?” He trails the extension lead across the room, and crouches to fit the plug in a socket.

“I most certainly _have_ , and let me tell you that Soviet Morning Calisthenics were a lot more grueling than anything your little punk brain could come up with. You don’t know hard work until you’ve got a Russian ice skater forcing you to do triple-Salchow after triple-Salchow until you stick the landing.”

 

The look Jack gives him from his position on the floor could be called something like _amazed_ , if not for the person it was coming from. Bitty returns the expression with a haughty one of his own. Jack’s mouth does that thing again – the not-quite smile.

“Well I’m expecting one-hundred-and-ten percent then, Bittle.”

 

Bitty drags a stool over to the keyboard and plonks himself down on it with as little huff as he can manage. He feels his eyes growing wide as Jack copies him, pulling his own stool to Bitty’s side and sitting, frankly, a little closer than he needs.

 

Jack is a leg-spreader when seated. Bitty can’t say he’s surprised.

 

When he speaks, Jack’s voice is pitched low, adjusted for their proximity. Something about it makes Bitty swallow, twist his hands in his lap. It feels intimate.

 

“What are the main differences?”

“Sorry?”

“Between piano and keyboard. I know theoretically, but I only know basically from the keyboard side, so I need you to tell me what the main problems are so we can figure out what to do.”

Bitty isn’t sure what to say. What Jack said sounded, in the vaguest sense, like a compliment. He rests his hands on the keys, to ground himself. He can feel Jack’s eyes on him, can smell the clean, spiced scent of Jack’s soap. It doesn’t help. He’s silent for long enough that Jack’s voice comes out impossibly gentler when he continues.

 

“Bittle, listen. You’re a good player, that much is obvious. You’ve got solid musicality, and there’s energy in what you do that can’t be faked. You’ve got good hands. But there’s an obvious disconnect between what you _have_ been playing and what we _need_ you to play. You want to; I know you do. We just need to – to make your brain catch up to that.”

 

Bitty runs his fingers over the keys, and when he starts to speak, his tongue separates from the roof of his mouth with a soft sound that is made loud in the quiet between them.

“It just feels – _wrong_. I feel like I’m starting out again, like I have to re-learn everything I know. It _looks_ like a piano, and when I can get it to work it kinda _sounds_ like a piano, but it’s like someone changed all the rules when I wasn’t paying attention.” He plays a short, repetitive melody, concentrating fiercely on the placement of his fingers. “The keys are too close together; look. I start pressing three at once if I stop thinkin’ about it. And they’re such a soft touch, like I don’t even need to press them any and they’re makin’ some sort of noise. That’s why I keep playing notes I don’t mean to.” He transitions into something more complex, but only barely so – something familiar enough to him that he doesn’t quite need to focus wholly on it. “And where all are the pedals on this darn thing? How am I supposed sustain?”

Jack chuckles quietly, and Bitty chances a peek at him. His eyes are cast down at Bitty’s hands, eyelashes fanning barely over cheekbones. Bitty looks back to what he’s doing. His own cheeks feel hot.

 

“This isn’t classical,” Jack comments.

“No,” Bitty agrees. He continues playing before he decides that Jack was probably prompting him. His face gets hotter. “It’s Beyoncé, if you must know.”

Jack hums thoughtfully, a deep and graveled sound that rests itself in Bitty’s chest. He doesn’t appear derisive, or critical.

“You like pop music.”

Despite the matter-of-factness of his tone, Bitty jumps to the defensive. “Plenty of people do, Mr. Zimmermann. And, as you can very well hear, it can be musically complex in addition to catchy and entertaining.” He adds an extra flourish where Beyoncé would be singing _baby, I can see your halo_.

“You’re having no problems with the keyboard now.”

 

The comment catches Bitty a little off-guard, and he pares back his playing slightly to allow himself to think.

“Well, no, I suppose I’m not. I’ve played this a million times, though. I could do it in my sleep. I pretty much _am_ , it’s so goddamn early.”

“It’s your comfort zone. Punk is _outside_ your comfort zone.”

“I’m not uncomfortable with punk.” Bitty can’t seem to help playing D-man with Jack. He mentally chastises himself.

“But it’s not in your wheelhouse.”

“…No,” Bitty admits, albeit hesitantly. He isn’t sure he’s ever wanted to be something so much. “But I’ve been listening to more, even since yesterday. Lardo sent me a bunch of bands – I really like Girlpool and Chastity Belt so far, but they’ve all been super good.” He transitions his playing into an imitation of the opening bars of one of the songs Lardo had sent him, mumbling the lyrics “ _Your tattoos, are, so deep_ ” over the top. He registers Jack shifting in his seat, leaning forward and bracketing his hands on his knees. There’s something radiating off him, something prickled and excitable, and Bitty throws him a cautious smile which is met with a significant and approving nod.

“What else do you remember?”

 

Bitty knows he isn’t imagining the notes of satisfaction, of near admiration, in Jack’s words. They stoke the weight that’s settled in his chest, and the flush of heat he feels in his cheeks now isn’t from embarrassment.

 

He shows off.

 

He plays a lot of the melodies in the songs Lardo sent him from memory, singing louder and more boldly the longer he goes. Sometimes, his fingers do slip, or he overcompensates on pressure and unintended notes stutter in to what he’s playing, but Jack doesn’t say anything and lets him play on. He’s treading his way through one of the ones that particularly stood out to him, reveling in the _ooh_ s in the vocals and mostly making up the translation from guitar to keys. He’s having fun.

 

“You’ve got a good voice.”

 

His fingers skitter out of his control, adding discordant notes to what he’s playing. He’s quick to pull them back on track, but he coughs and stops singing.

“Um. Thank you.”

“We can use that.”

“Oh! Um, I don’t know if… I mean, you sing. And Shitty sings.”

“Shitty doesn’t sing. I think we both know that can’t be called singing.”

Bitty laughs, a little uncertainly. Jack’s near-relentless monotone makes it hard to know when he’s joking or not.

“Look, you’ve probably figured out by now that punk doesn’t really hinge on being able to accurately hit a note or have a wide range. It’s better if your voice is recognizable, adds to the unique sound of your band.” Bitty nods his agreement. “We could get some interesting sound if we layered the both of us. You sound good, and you’re not actually tone deaf.” Bitty feels the urge to thank him, but once again, it’s not really a compliment. Jack is just stating empirical facts.

 

Without warning, Jack stands up and digs his hands into his pockets, apparently searching for something. He manages to extract a folded piece of paper, likely a receipt of some kind, and a pen. To Bitty, this seems expected: Jack _would_ be the kind of person to carry around a pen. He sits back down and smooths the receipt over his knee.

“Lardo’s got you started on some solid shit, but from what you’ve shown me it’s mostly all riot girl revival, which – don’t get me wrong, it’s good, but I want you to branch out a bit more. Obviously you know Modern Baseball from the gig, and you should listen to all of ‘ _Holy Ghost_ ’ – ah, ‘Apple Cider, I Don’t Mind’ does some interesting things with tempo. It’s, like, urgent in a way.” He pauses, and scratches his eyebrow with the end of the pen. Bitty has stopped playing in favor of watching him. He feels allowed. “More of these emo-type bands…” He scribbles down a few names, and pauses again. “The Front Bottoms, especially. They use keyboard, but don’t limit yourself to those songs. They did a split with GDP and it’s got some tight use of percussion.”

Bitty balks slightly, knowing Jack is speaking English, and is using terms Bitty is familiar with, but there’s something in it that Bitty still feels outside of.

“You’re giving me homework?”

 

Jack stops writing, and looks at him plaintively.

“Is it going to be work, Bittle?”

Bitty considers. “No, I suppose not.”

Jack nods, once, and goes back to his list. He reaches the end of the receipt, a list of maybe fifteen bands, and hovers his pen over the small blank spaces on the paper. He grunts a little, an impatient noise, and it takes Bitty a moment to realize that he’s apparently upset at himself for not being able to fit more on there.

“I’m sure that’s enough to start with,” Bitty supplies, as gentle and not-condescending as he can.

“Yeah,” Jack concedes, and hands Bitty the list. Feeling loosely dramatic, Bitty recognizes it as something revealing, something almost private: it is a list of the things that, in essence, Jack respects the most. Bitty folds it, careful as he can, and extracts his phone from his pocket and prizes the case off to fit the note inside.

“What time is it?”

“Huh?” Bitty carefully fits his case back on his phone, turning it in his hands to check for any protruding paper.

“What time is it?” Jack repeats, still even and low.

“Oh! Um,” Bitty illuminates his phone, “five-thirty. Wow, we’ve been at it an hour.”

 

Jack stands and crosses back to the wall plug, turning it off and then gathering the extension cord in consistent lengths.

“I’ve got to go running, and I’ve got a class at eight.”

Bitty stands to help him, returning their stools to the stacks they’d been retrieved from. “Two-and-a-half hours to run? Seems excessive.”

Keyboard under one arm, reaching for the stand with the other, Jack laughs once. “An hour for running. Weights, shower, breakfast. It’s called a _routine_ , Bittle. You might try it sometime.”

Bitty squints at him. “You’re telling me you voluntarily get up at five-thirty every morning to _train_? Lord, Jack, I hate to break it to you, but – there are professional athletes who don’t even do that.”

Jack settles the keyboard back into position, chuckling again. “It’s mostly physical therapy, strength training. For – euh, for my knee.” He gestures to his right leg, perhaps unnecessarily. Now Bitty can’t help but look at it. It looks normal; functional. The tail of a scorpion curls from beneath the hem of Jack’s shorts, directly over the kneecap. The _what happened to it?_ pushes against Bitty’s tongue, but he manages to hold it back, replacing it with a flat “Oh.”

 

He looks back to Jack’s face, and sees he’s being watched with careful consideration. A slight frown develops between Jack’s eyebrows again, and he grimaces slightly.

“Come on.” He makes for the door. “You can go back to sleep for the rest of the day while the rest of us are being productive.”

Bitty scoffs in outrage, but inside he’s warm.

 

* * *

 

 

He does, indeed, go back to sleep, but wakes up again at seven-thirty and goes on his own run before his nine o’clock class. His day seems tinged by the time spent with Jack in the early hours, as though that were some sort of dream clinging vividly and stickily to everything else he does. He doesn’t take notes in his morning lecture, instead searching up all of Jack’s recommendations on Spotify and adding them to a rapidly-growing playlist. He even downloads them onto his phone, and as soon as the lecturer dismisses them, he plugs in his headphones and queues up the first band.

 

He commits a faux-pas of social etiquette by only removing one earbud when he orders his afternoon coffee at Annie’s. That is the only point in the day when he actually pauses in listening to the music – every other moment, from his dining-hall lunch to his attempt at studying in Founders, is pervaded by the sound of Jack Zimmermann’s favorite bands.

 

The thing that surprises him is how wide-reaching the selection is, dipping in and out of tempos, sliding on a scale between what might be graded as pop-punk versus hard-core. He starts to make a list of his own, of the songs that particularly stand out to him and the bands that resonate with him more than others. He finds that, overall, he clicks with Jack’s selections.

 

The boy knows what he’s talking about.

 

Coffee firmly in hand and ears filled with Hockey Dad – if Bitty’s not mistaken, the band whose shirt Shitty had been wearing on the day of the MoBo gig – he makes his way over to the Haus. He had been trading intermittent texts with Lardo throughout the day, and they had jointly decided fro-yo was in order for that afternoon as well. Bitty tells himself that two days in a row isn’t too much of a sin; he can get the low-fat version, with fruit on top.

 

He is greeted at the door by Shitty, in green boxer-briefs and nothing else. More than anything, Bitty is shocked by the full – and _messy_ – extent of his tattoos. Their layered and sketched quality extends across his chest and, like Jack’s, down his legs.

“Oh my god,” Bitty says, before he can stop himself.

“Bits! Lardo said you were swinging by. Come in, my man.”

 

Bitty had not gone inside when he visited Lardo yesterday, her rather greeting him at the door with a backpack on and a firm and elongated “Fro- _yo_.” This makes his third entry to the Haus, and the only time he isn’t immediately shunted to the basement. Instead, Shitty leads him through to a _kitchen_. A large kitchen, with plenty of bench-space and a cooktop and a full-sized _oven_.

 

Bitty gasps, clutching a theatrical hand to his chest.

“Shitty, why didn’t you tell me about the _kitchen_?”

Already peering into the fridge, Shitty casts a “huh?” over his shoulder.

“Tell Lardo we’re not getting fro-yo _,_ ” he informs Shitty imperiously. “I am making y’all brownies.”

Shitty cracks open his newly-acquired beer, takes a sip, and says “Sweet.”

 

He seems to catch on quite quickly that Bitty was _very_ serious, wandering back out into the hallway once Bitty starts fiddling with the dials on the oven to set it to pre-heat. It takes some digging through the cupboards, but Bitty manages to scrape together ingredients enough to make some basic chocolate brownies. He spends a moment despairing the lack of walnuts, but decides it’s well enough that they even have brown sugar.

 

He turns the speakers on his phone up high, rests it in the center of the bench, and gets about measuring his flour.

 

With a favorite discovery from Jack’s list playing in the background, Bitty dances between bench and cupboard and sink, making do with the utensils available. He’s singing exuberantly along – “ _just waiting to return to you and your bed_ ” – whisking eggs into dry ingredients with a fork, twitching his hips in time, when there is a loud and pointed “Hi” from behind him.

 

He whirls around, and should not be surprised at what he sees, but his cheeks heat all the same and he nearly drops the bowl. Jack Zimmermann, leaning against the doorframe.

 

He’s smiling.

 


	4. this is just not what you wanted at this point in your life

 

“Enjoying yourself, Bittle?” Jack raises his eyebrows, and drags his teeth along his bottom lip through a smirk. It’s a look both teasing ( _joking_ ) and something like approving, and Bitty really doesn’t have the wherewithal to parse it right now.

“Shitty said I could,” he blurts, biting down on a wince as he becomes aware just how childish that sounded. Like he’s begging off discipline from an authority figure.

 

Jack’s eyebrows lower into a sarcastic frown. “Shitty said you could enjoy yourself?”

“Bake brownies. Shitty said I could bake brownies.” He makes a half-formed gesture with the bowl in his arms, probably unnecessarily. Jack’s now looking at the bowl, vague concern across his face.

“Did he – did Shitty give you… anything? To put in the brownies?”

Bitty blinks at him. “No,” he says, hesitant, and Jack’s expression clears. Bitty looks back to his batter and keeps beating. It seems like the safe option.

 

As he works through the lumps of flour in the mix, he registers Jack moving to the fridge and taking something out.

“So,” Jack says, and when Bitty looks up he’s leaning on his forearms across the kitchen bench, a bottle of blue Powerade in his hands. “Baking.”

“Baking,” Bitty agrees, before realizing it was maybe a suggestion to explain himself. He wonders distantly if Jack _knows_ he makes conversation very difficult. “I like to bake, and the student kitchens are a horror show; you can barely fit a cake tin in those ovens, let alone a dozen cookies. And I know, you’re going to say that if I used two smaller trays and had them on different levels, then I could do twelve, but do you know how hard it is to get an even bake that way? There’s enough juggling needed in rotating the tray to get them all browned the same, never mind having to think about switching them like some sort of – some sort of _Ferris wheel_. I mean, I ask you. The last time I tried to make brownies in that _poor excuse_ of an oven, they were still liquid inside when the top was perfect crust. No way am I going to let it ruin anything more complicated.”

 

He directs most of this into the brownie mix, which he knows he’s in danger of overbeating, but it all just tumbles out and he can’t bring himself to see what Jack’s making of him right now.

“I thought you’d bought those pies. The ones from practice. And the – things with the coconut. With the chocolate on them.”

Bitty’s surprise overpowers the offence he feels at having been accused of palming off store-bought pies to new acquaintances. He’s aware that his open mouth and raised eyebrows are slightly cartoonish as he looks back up to Jack where he’s still leaning on the counter, looking at Bitty placidly.

“I didn’t think you noticed those.”

“I liked them. The pies were nice, and the coconut things. I probably ate most of those.”

Bitty stares at him. He hadn’t even clocked Jack eating anything; Jack had seemed so disapproving over everything about Bitty that Bitty’s main goal that afternoon had been to avoid eye contact and try not to appear like he wanted to cry.

 

It’s Jack who looks away first now. He clears his throat and shrugs his gaze out the window, taking a pull of his Powerade.

“Florentines,” Bitty announces. Jack directs a confused frown at him. Bitty replays what he just said, and wonders if bad conversation skills are contagious. “The coconut things are called Florentines. They have cherries in as well, and I thought it would be a nice thing. Matchy-matchy, you know? Cherry pies, cherry Florentines.”

 

Jack just nods, and sips more of his drink. Bitty feels his cheeks heat up, so turns to retrieve his pre-buttered pan and hide what is surely a violent blush. He’s thankful for the music still coming from his phone, at least, for stopping a heavy silence from falling between them.

 

He knows he’s overly-attentive as he pours his batter into the pan, and spends an inordinate amount of time smoothing the top with the back of a spoon. He swears he can feel Jack’s eyes on him the entire time, and although a shrill part of his brain tells him he’s being paranoid, a quick glance up confirms his suspicions: Jack is, indeed, watching him still.

 

It’s only when Bitty deposits the tray safely in the fully-heated oven that Jack speaks again.

“How long will they take?”

Bitty hums, and bends to press his hand momentarily to the glass on the oven door. “I’ll be overly-cautious and check them in twenty minutes, just in case.”

Jack’s expression is speculative and almost skeptical. “Did you just… were you checking the temperature?”

Bitty folds his arms, back on the defensive. “I was getting a general indication of the heat, yes.”

“With your hand? Because, Bittle, that seems about as accurate as kissing someone’s forehead to check if they’ve got a fever.”

“A tried and tested method, Mister Zimmermann. I’ll have you know that both my Moo Maw _and_ my sweet mother have accurately diagnosed my childhood illnesses in that manner.”

Jack opens his mouth, retort clearly already tripping across his tongue, then shuts it and sets his jaw. He closes his eyes and shakes his head.

“Twenty minutes,” he says, firm. “That’s more than enough time. Come with me.”

 

Jack leaves the kitchen without a backward glance, and Bitty is left gaping after him before his brain catches up. He snatches his phone off the counter and skips to follow.

 

A few steps behind has him almost jogging as Jack takes the stairs two-at-a-time. Bitty notes that Jack is, for the first time, wearing neither Vans nor jean shorts: his shoes are yellow fluorescent trainers, and his pants are athletic.

 

They fit well. Bitty feels his foot catch on one of the steps.

 

“What did you think of the bands?”

Bitty jerks his eyes up to where Jack’s face should be, but thankfully he hasn’t turned around. They make it to the landing, but Jack doesn’t stop.

“Oh, they’re just all so great. I really liked Martha, and PUP were really nice as well.”

“ _Really nice_ ,” Jack mutters, pausing outside a door in the hallway. “Watch out for Hab,” he warns, before opening the door and ushering Bitty inside. Bitty goes as quickly as he can, his arm brushing against Jack’s stomach as he darts past. With the door closed, Jack immediately bends down and scoops his cat off the floor – which Bitty hadn’t even _seen_ , where did it come from? He carries it one-handed across the room and drops it onto the brown couch, but it has barely landed before it slinks off the furniture and into the bathroom. Jack doesn’t seem to notice; he’s crossed to his wardrobe and is pushing through things on a high shelf.

“What else?” he says, and Bitty blinks before realizing he’s still talking about bands.

“Um, you saw I _obviously_ enjoyed ‘ _Holy Ghost_ ’ and you were totally right about ‘Apple Cider.’ I think I also liked Hunx and His Punx and… The Spook School? Those were the best.”

 

Jack turns a sharp look on him, something fierce and calculating. “Really?”

Bitty resists taking a step backward. “Yeah. I like that they were a bit more… upbeat? Fun, I guess? I mean –“ he rubs a hand across the back of his neck, which suddenly feels very hot – “I like the more serious ones too, but those two sounded carefree and… good.” He finishes his thought lamely, feeling scanned and evaluated by Jack’s keen eyes. However, his answer seems satisfactory enough, and Jack nods once before turning back to his search. It gives Bitty the opportunity to look better around the room – something which he’d truthfully been too overwhelmed to do the other night after the show.

 

The walls are painted a warm reddish-brown, and there is the snowy forest photo hanging over the leather couch. Bitty goes to sit. Above the bed, there are a few framed black-and-white photographs: a vintage-looking hockey brawl; a lonely stage set up for a show; four figures sitting on a roof, silhouetted against the sky; an older couple who, Bitty realizes with a thrill, are obviously Bad Bob and Jack’s mother. A record player sits on top of the bedside table, and a large bookcase – while bearing a hefty number of books – is mostly filled with records. Next to the couch, right by where Bitty sits, there is a bar fridge. Apparently not filled with Powerade, Bitty can’t help but wonder what’s inside.

 

There’s no clutter, not like Bitty’s dorm, and yet it doesn’t feel bland. Maybe it’s just the softness of the wall color, or maybe it’s the truly comfortable couch, but Bitty likes it all. It has a feeling, a stoic kind of calm.

 

Bitty is smiling at Jack’s back when he turns around finally, holding a blank cardboard box. He draws up short, a wary expression overtaking his face.

“What?”

“What?” Bitty echoes, shaking himself a little.

“Why were you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like –“ Jack cuts himself off with a grit out sigh, and closes his eyes again. “Never mind. Here.” He crosses to Bitty where he sits and holds out the box, which Bitty takes with admitted apprehension.

 

“What is it?”

“Open it and find out, Bittle,” Jack says slowly, folding his arms in a way that makes his t-shirt sleeves pull against his biceps. The images painted there also shift, and Bitty finds himself eyeing one in particular. At this distance, Bitty thinks he can make out what seems to be a butterfly, wrapped in a banner of some kind. He can’t figure what the words say, because Jack coughs pointedly, making Bitty force his gaze back to the box.

 

He fumbles the tabs momentarily before managing to slide them out, and opens the lid. Inside is a black rectangle of plastic with three silver protrusions. Bitty frowns at it over a series of moments, before something clicks in to place.

“Are these – are these _pedals_?”

“Yeah.”

Bitty feels his fingers tighten on the box, though he can’t bring himself to do anything further with it. He also can’t quite figure out what the pedals – _keyboard pedals_ , Jack has given him keyboard pedals – are making him feel. He takes what he judges to be the easiest option and peers back up at Jack, who still has folded arms and is staring at Bitty with wide eyes and a tight line of a mouth.

 

“What are you doing with them?”

“I got them – um, ages ago. To mess around with, and uh, forgot I had them. You said this morning – you said you wanted to try sustaining and stuff, on the keys, so.” He swallows visibly, and Bitty notes his eyes darting over to the bathroom. “You’ll get more use out of them than I will.” He says this louder than before, eyes still trained on the bathroom doorway, from which direction comes a rustle of objects and a muffled “aw, fuck.”

 

Bitty leans his head toward the noise, but as it is soon followed by an audible closing of a door, he decides it doesn’t matter. He feels, oddly, like he’s been caught at something.

“You’ll get them back,” he tells Jack, conscious of how earnest he sounds. “When I get my own gear sorted, I’ll give them back to you. And the keyboard too. Thank you for that, by the way.”

Jack looks away and shrugs slightly. “It’s nothing, Bittle. They’re yours. What am I going to do with a keyboard anyway? Like I said; you’ll use it all more.”

 

Bitty looks down too, into his own lap, where he’s still clutching at the box.

“Bittle –“ Jack starts, but he’s cut off by the sound of a door slamming downstairs, and a resounding yell of “Holy _fuck_ , shit smells good in here!”

 

Bitty jumps to his feet.

“The brownies,” Bitty tells Jack, and before Jack can make a reply, Bitty has made for the door. He goes out, into the paint-splattered hallway, and doesn’t pause before he closes the door behind himself.

 

* * *

 

 

Bitty managed to fend a ravenous Holster and Ransom off the tray of brownies until they had suitably cooled for optimum chewy-ness. Their highly vocal approval of Bitty’s baking had attracted Lardo, who accepted her own brownie with a musing “I thought someone was having sex in here, with all the moaning.” Similar reasoning had brought down Shitty, who had Jack in tow.

 

The thing Bitty had been fixating on for his entire walk back to his dorm, and is still stuck on as he tries to juggle his phone and keys and the box of pedals, is the pointed way Jack had avoided his eyes. He had taken a brownie, and thanked Bitty, and said “it’s good,” but he had done all this without looking at Bitty once.

 

“What crawled up his ass?” Bitty mutters to himself as he shoulders the door open. The “Nothing good, I guess” he gets in reply makes him nearly drop his box.

 

There is someone in his room, someone _awake_ , someone standing next to his keyboard and wearing a backwards cap and a blank expression.

“Hi!” Bitty bursts out, perhaps a little too forcefully if the startled taint the guy’s face takes on is any indication. “You’re here. And you’re awake,” Bitty adds, with more control this time. “You are – you’re William, right?” Bitty hefts the box against his hip and shoves his phone into his pocket, extending a newly-free hand in his as-yet-unmet roommate’s direction. William steps forward and shakes it with a liberally freckled one of his own. The freckles extend up his forearms, which are exposed by the rolled sleeves of his flannel shirt. On dropping his hand, Bitty’s eyes also unconsciously drop, to William’s shoes.

 

They’re Vans.

 

“Oh my god, not you too.”

William shuffles a bit, thrusting his hands into his pockets. “Okay,” he says. His discomfort is clear.

“Lord, I’m so sorry – I’m being so rude. It’s just. I have a – there’s a guy I know, he wears those shoes as well.”

“I think a lot of people do.”

Bitty laughs despite himself, and even to him it sounds self-deprecating. “I know. I’m being stupid. Sorry. Hi,” he says again, doing his best to give William a reassuring smile. “I’m Eric Bittle. I can’t believe we haven’t met before now, but the start of the year has just been _hectic_.”

“Will’s fine. Or, people call me Dex.”

Bitty’s smile is coming more naturally now. “People call me Bitty.”

Dex doesn’t seem to know what to say to that, and he looks away for a moment before jerking his head at Bitty’s keyboard. “That’s new.”

“Oh! Yes, I hope you don’t mind?” Bitty crosses over and deposits the pedal box on his desk before setting about opening it again and taking out the pedals. “I’ve recently become involved with a band, and they need me more on keyboard than piano, so – well. This is to practice on. Obviously I’ll wear headphones, so I won’t bother you any. If you happen to be here, that is.” He makes his tone as lightly teasing as possible, and it seems to work for a moment; Dex’s mouth threatens a smile.

 

“You’re in a band?”

Bitty hums assent as he unravels the cable from the pedals, which Jack had wound carefully in to the box.

“What kind of music do you play?” Something in Dex’s tone hints at genuine interest, and Bitty is distantly thankful. He’d noticed the poster for the New England Patriots. He’d noticed the box labelled “TOOLS” on Dex’s shelf. He’d _definitely_ noticed the piles of flannel that drifted between bed and floor and desk chair.

 

Bitty isn’t one to stereotype, but it all suggests a certain kind of person – a kind of person Bitty is _very_ acquainted with.

 

“DIY punk,” Bitty replies confidently, fitting the jacks into the appropriate sockets. He’s met with an obvious silence that prompts him to look up from what he’s doing. Dex is watching, brow furrowed.

“I thought guys in punk bands were less… in to Beyoncé.” He inclines his head towards Bitty’s wall, where Bitty knows there is a full-color, full-gloss poster of Bey in all her ‘Flawless’-era glory.

 

Although Dex’s voice smacks of something judgmental and familiar (“Coach, I thought your son would be less… in to figure skating.”) Bitty continues with his brazen smile.

“Oh, you know. Punk’s a new flame, but I’ll always have my one true love.”

The comment doesn’t seem to assuage Dex’s confusion more than a little, but it is enough to get him moving to sit in his desk chair and stop standing awkwardly in the middle of the room.

“You’re a sophomore?”

Bitty nods, sitting himself on his bed now he’s got the keyboard all set up. “Music major.”

“I play guitar,” Dex counters, gesturing inexplicably to his closet. Bitty follows Dex’s hand with his eyes, and his confusion must show because Dex continues, “I’ve been keeping my guitar in there because I know some guys don’t like the idea of noise.”

Bitty scoffs a laugh. “Honey, this is Samwell. It was recently brought to my attention that, given it’s a fucking liberal arts college, everyone’s in a band.”

 

Bitty’s cussing imitation of Shitty seems to do more than his other words to soothe Dex’s agitation; he laughs a little in return, and settles further into his chair.

“What kind of stuff do you play?” Bitty’s politeness wins him over, in spite of wanting to plug in his headphones a play out the melodies that have been sitting in his brain all day.

 

His morning with Jack seems days ago.

 

“Same as you, I guess.” Dex admits this, faint redness skittering across his cheeks and nose, with clear hesitation. Bitty takes pity on him.

“You should come meet the guys sometime. They have a show house – _the_ Haus, actually – and could probably tell you about some other local places. If that’s the kind of thing you’re interested in, I mean.”

He nods again, giving Bitty a lopsided smile, and Bitty takes this as a good opportunity to duck out of the conversation.

 

“I’ll let you know next time I go to a show. Meantime, I should…“ he trails off, running his fingers pointedly over the keys, and Dex nods understandingly.

 

Headphones in, Bitty plays through the melody of one of Jack’s songs from memory – one by The Front Bottoms, that Jack had liked the percussion on. He makes liberal use of the pedals, and draws the song into something slow and more melancholic, biting back on singing out loud.

 

He finishes the song, and feels… listless. Adrift.

 

He packs up, and gets ready for bed.

 

* * *

 

Bitty’s not exactly proud of the way he strong-arms Dex into going to Annie’s with him the next morning, but he definitively does _not_ want to be alone with his thoughts. The space Dex puts between them as they wait on line doesn’t go unnoticed, but Bitty decides he doesn’t mind, as long as Dex is still in yammering distance. And Bitty _is_ yammering, endlessly and without breath. He talks Dex through his personal music history, through starting piano lessons as a teeny tot, and juggling them with ice-skating as he grew up, through to shifting to hockey – Dex’s eyebrows raise minutely at that – and finally having to throw _that_ aside too on account of his scholarship.

 

“But, you know, skating was always just a fun thing, a side thing. A way to be active and keep my fitness up. I love it, but piano is my first passion. _Well_ , maybe not my _first_ passion, because I was in the kitchen lickin’ spoons a long while before I could press a key, but they don’t very well have baking scholarships, do they?”

Across from Bitty, at the table they’ve managed to settle at, Dex opens his mouth with the clear intention of reply, if he wasn’t interrupted.

“Bittle.”

 

Bitty looks up in the direction of the voice, and is met by the towering figure of – perhaps predictably, when Bitty thinks on it – Jack Zimmermann. There is another cap on his head, and he’s actually wearing a jacket today – a worn and tired-looking denim one, with a noticeable Pens patch on the shoulder. He’s switched his ubiquitous shorts for a pair of black jeans, and Bitty is quietly thankful. He looks, weirdly, like he’s put in some sort of effort to his outfit. Bitty bites his lips around a compliment, using every ounce of his own restraint to simply look at Jack, expectant.

“I need to talk to you.”

“Oh, you do, do you?” If Bitty sounds lofty and dismissive, it’s only because he’s trying with every fiber of his being to sound lofty and dismissive. He knows he’s being petty, but Jack’s hot-and-cold routine is really not worth his time. At least, that’s what he’s been repeating to himself since he woke up.

 

Hence, Annie’s. Hence, Dex. Hence, yammering.

 

Jack visibly chews on some reply. He glances over to Dex, and his eyes perform the dismissive sweep that Bitty remembers from their first meeting. He looks back to Bitty with a new intensity.

“Please, Bittle. I’m sorry about yesterday, I’m sorry for being… weird. Can we go talk?”

Bitty too glances to Dex, who is shifting between the pair of them. His brow is furrowed in confusion again. Bitty sighs.

“Dex, I’ll be back in a moment.”

 

He follows Jack outside, where the air is noticeably clearer and quieter. When Jack turns to face him, he shoves his hands into his jacket pockets. He shifts his weight between his feet, and frowns down at Bitty for a moment. Bitty is about to say something when Jack pulls an object from his pocket and holds it out.

 

It’s a folded packet of lined paper, Jack’s writing clear and precise on the outside: _For Bittle_.

“I made you a mix. I know you’ve already got through those other albums. This is just, like, some good songs from the bands you already know, and some… other stuff too. Stuff I think you’ll like.” For the first time, Jack sounds unsure while talking about music. Bitty takes the envelope, and turns it over. On the back, the same neat lettering lists song titles and their bands. Bitty’s eyes catch on the word ‘Halo,’ and his breath stutters briefly.

“You made me a mix CD? You know you could just have sent me a playlist.”

“I don’t know how to do that.”

Bitty squints at him. “What do you _mean_ —“

“Bittle, are you going to berate me about digital music or can I please just talk to you?”

 

Bitty slips the CD into his own jacket pocket, and turns his face up to Jack’s. He doesn’t have to wait long.

 

“I know I can be… whatever, a lot of the time,” Jack launches in, fixing Bitty with a serious look. His voice is quiet, and Bitty finds himself stepping forward a little to get closer to it. “Shitty says I have modes. Like a robot.” It’s maybe a joke, but Jack sounds a shade bitter. Bitty resists reaching out to lay a comforting hand on his arm. “It’s just, it’s got to go well, you know? The band; the new shit; you. Lardo said you guys talked.” Bitty feels knocked slightly off-kilter by what he perceives as a drastic change in topic. He nods jerkily. “I know she didn’t tell you everything. She wouldn’t. But – ah, I think you deserve to know.”

 

Jack shuffles a bit, and makes a nervous gesture in shrugging his shoulder against his ear. Bitty throws caution to the wind; he reaches out, and does wrap a tentative hand around Jack’s elbow. Something calm flickers across Jack’s face. It seems like the right decision.

 

“I know you know who my dad is –“ Bitty nods, and Jack huffs an approximation of a laugh – “and I know you know I can’t play hockey any more. I busted my ACL, and needed a full reco, and then I – uh, I didn’t complete my physio properly, and jumped back on the ice too soon, so now my knee is… in short, it’s totally fucked. I could have kept playing, if I’d just.” He breaks off with a sigh, and looks away briefly before pulling himself back in. “It was a bunch of shit, all piling up, and I ended up going in to therapy. I did a music therapy program as well, and picked up guitar, and I was so fucking _angry_ , Bits.” His eyes are wide now, pleading in a way, begging with Bitty to understand. Bitty manages a nod, and rubs his thumb in a circle around Jack’s elbow joint. Jack swallows, making a dry clicking noise, before clearing his throat and continuing.

 

“Punk was there. I got in a band, and it was good for a while, but then some shit went down and, um. So did I. I took some time off everything,” he forges on, despite what Bitty knows is the horrified expression on his own face, “coached some peewee. Wrote a bunch of songs. Got back in shape. Got clean.” He adds the last part hesitantly. Bitty steps closer. “And now I just – I know what I want, Bits. I’m here to get what I want. I got plans. And sometimes I just – I just get so fucking terrified that I’m going to lose it all again.”

 

His voice is coming at a low rumble, and his eyes are wide and earnest with huge pupils, and even though he’s so much taller than Bitty, and even though he’s physically the strongest person Bitty has ever met, and even though there isn’t an inch of his skin below his neck that’s not filled with ink, and _even though_ he plays music that’s raw and thrashing and loud loud loud, Bitty _knows_ he needs a hug.

 

He closes the gap between them, and lifts up on his toes to hook his chin over Jack’s shoulder, wrapping his arms as firmly as he can around Jack’s body.

 

Jack makes a small noise, something like _ah_ , and hugs Bitty back.

 


	5. evenings of silence and mornings of nausea

 

If Bitty were to closely examine his life, he’d probably be able to come up with an answer for how he ends up squashed at a table in Annie’s with two very large and very cranky punks. As it is, though, he doesn’t quite want to delve into that level of self-reflection.

Bitty had stepped back from Jack’s arms, and said “I’m sorry, but I should –“ and jerked his head towards the window, through which the back of Dex’s ginger head was visible, even in the crowd. Jack had followed him inside, produced a chair (“Excuse me, is this seat taken?” and a startling smile that garnered a giggle from the girl he asked), and plonked himself down next to Bitty at their table.

“What are you drinking?” he asks Bitty immediately, peering over into his quarter-finished cup.  
“It’s, um, a vanilla latte.”  
Jack hums, then unceremoniously picks up Bitty’s mug and takes a sip. He wrinkles his nose, and sets it back down.  
“I’m getting coffee,” he informs Bitty, and stands again. There’s something languid about the way he moves to the counter, something loping. His back seems straighter, his shoulders less tense. They’re quite broad, really. Very broad shoulders. The denim of his jacket is stretched across them comfortably, looking worn and soft. It’s a nice jacket.

Dex coughs.

Bitty jerks back to look at him, unblinking. He takes a slow sip of his coffee. Dex is frowning at him.  
“Is that Jack Zimmermann?”  
Bitty gapes for a moment. “Yes.”  
“He’s in Soft Hands, right?”  
Bitty blinks, finally. “Yes!” It comes out loud and overly forceful, and very high. He clears his throat before continuing. “That’s uh – that’s the band I’m in, too.”  
If possible, Dex’s frown deepens. His expression is firmly toeing the border between grumpy and confused, but Bitty is sure there isn’t anything hostile in it. Dex seems to be chewing over some reply. He takes a sip of his coffee.

“They’re a good band,” is what he finally says.

Bitty nods enthusiastically. “I’ve only just started, we’re still trying to sort some things out with how the keys fit in, but – I was at practice the other day, and Lord, they’ve got such a sound. The way Holster and Ransom play off each other as drum and bass, and how Shitty’s playing is kind of messy, but it just… works? And, wow, Jack is just. I mean, the songs he writes, and the things he can do on guitar. Jack –“  
“Jack what?”

Bitty startles as Jack settles back into his chair, placing a cup of dark, steaming coffee on the table. He’s smirking a little.

“Um. I was telling Dex about – about Soft Hands, about how we’re – you’re trying a new direction with the band, with. Um. Me.”

Jack’s still smirking, eyes still on Bitty even as he says, “Yeah, we’re trying to rebrand ourselves as disco.”  
Bitty buries a snort in another sip of his coffee, and even Dex chuckles in an uncertain way. This is what makes Jack look over to him, smile immediately dissolving. He looks at Dex expectantly, not saying anything. Dex looks back. Bitty sets his coffee down.  
“Jack, this is Dex, my roommate. Dex, Jack.”  
Jack extends a hand, which Dex takes, and although the handshake is short, it looks firm; Bitty can see the tendons in Jack’s wrist tensing. He also doesn’t miss the way Dex briefly flexes his hand on letting go of Jack’s.

“A friend of mine linked me you guys’ BandCamp a while ago. I downloaded your LP for free and then after I listened to it, I had to go back and pay. It was really good.”  
“So you were the one?” Jack comments dryly.  
Bitty titters a little, and lightly slaps Jack’s arm. Perhaps naturally or perhaps in response, Jack leans minutely in to Bitty’s space and lets his legs fall further apart. The result is their shoulders brushing, and his knee resting against Bitty’s under the table.

Maybe it’s accidental. Regardless, Bitty doesn’t move.

“Bitty said you guys have a DIY house?”  
Jack hums and nods, blowing on his still-steaming coffee.  
“I’ve been looking for shows since I got here and just haven’t been able to figure it out. I guess I lucked out getting Bitty as a roommate.” Dex is frowning as he says it, but Bitty is still oddly touched.  
“I know the feeling,” Jack murmurs, low enough that Bitty isn’t sure he intended to say it. Bitty keeps his eyes resolutely on Dex, ignoring the persistent pressure he feels building in his cheeks. “We’ve got a show this Friday, if you want to come along.”  
“Yeah,” Dex bursts out, and it’s the most excited Bitty’s seen him. “Back home, it was easy because – ah, small town, so there was only really one place where bands would play. And sometimes we’d drive to Portland for a show, but that was always planned and it was because you knew the band or some guy who knew a guy in the house. Here – I don’t know. It’s… different. To what I was expecting.”

Bitty doesn’t miss the way Dex’s eyes flick to him, so he politely looks to Jack in anticipation of his response. Now Jack is frowning. This is what’s got Bitty wondering why – and how – he’s managed to associate himself with such perpetually sullen people.

“It can be hard to get in to a scene, sure.”

That’s all he says, even though Bitty watches him and waits. Bitty looks back to Dex, who is nodding and doesn’t seem to expect anything else. Bitty is nonplussed.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, just drinking their coffees, and although it makes Bitty twitchy and vaguely discomfited, Jack and Dex seem enough at ease. Eventually, Dex takes a particularly deep sip of his coffee, smacks his lips, and says, “Okay.” He stands and swings his backpack on to his shoulder.

“Jack, good to meet you, man. I’ll see you later, Bitty.” He raps his knuckles once on the table, and starts to pick his way through the maze of seating to the door.

“Nice kid.” Jack says this into his coffee, low and contemplative. Bitty gawps at him.  
“Really? You definitely kept that sentiment to yourself.”  
Jack laughs, once, softly – like ha – and puts his empty coffee cup on the table. Bitty somehow still has a quarter cup left.  
“Do you have class?”  
“Not until later.” As if to emphasize his point, Jack shoves his hands into his pockets and leans back in his chair. He’s obviously settling in, and although Dex has vacated the seat across from Bitty, makes no move to fill it.

Under the table, their knees are still pressed together.

 

* * *

 

 

For the first time in his college career, Bitty is late to a class.

His Wednesday night orchestra rehearsal has been happening consistently and unchangingly since he started at Samwell: seven o’clock call time, Shiffley Concert Hall. It’s possibly been the only fixed point in his schedule, something he can rely on. Something he actually looks forward to.

And yet, he bustles in partway through warm-up and not so much holding Starbucks, but – he may as well be. He feels the eyes of the entire orchestra on him as he crosses the room to settle himself in position as the alternate piano. He attaches his eyes to the sheets they have on the stand, and studiously ignores everything else. Their conductor Nadya has fixed him with a borderline glare, and Bitty knows he’s going to get a talking-to later. He doesn’t actually have a good reason to offer up for his lateness; he’d gone back to his room after class, and had been messing around with some Soft Hands songs that Jack had sent him the sheets for. Next thing, it had been ten-to-seven and he’d (grudgingly) had to make his way to Shiffley.

When they switch out to alternates and he takes position on the bench, Bitty’s head is slightly fogged. He feels distinctly lazy, and he knows he’s dragging, but for some reason he just can’t make himself care about Gershwin. It’s stereotypical, and frankly boring, and he almost can’t believe that it’s the piece they’ve chosen for their semester showcase.

He lasts one run-through before he’s bumped back to page-turning. Nadya is visibly fuming.

At eight-thirty, she dismisses them all, and Bitty is halfway to the door when she calls him back.  
“Call time is seven. You’ve never missed call time.”  
Bitty sets his jaw and nods. There’s nothing he can really say to that without sounding belligerent.  
“And you know well as I do that the only reason you’re sitting on alternate is because you’re a sophomore. Next year, you’ll be primary. But only if you show me you want it. You wanted it last year.” She sounds accusatory, and it’s her tone more than anything that makes Bitty bristle.  
“I still want it,” he hedges. The words sit oddly on his tongue.  
Nadya nods. “I only have two seats for piano, Eric, and I have at least a dozen players on my waitlist.” It’s not quite a threat, but it’s close. Bitty feels his heart skip a little, his face heat up; apologies force their way into and out of his mouth.  
“I get it,” Nadya tells him, ghost of a smile in her eyes. “It’s a sophomore slump; it happens. And I know there isn’t a heap of piano in what we do, and it’s a stretch that we even have two of you. I know it can be boring. But frankly, you need to get over it. We can’t have lazy players in our chairs.” She waits for him to nod before continuing. He does, biting down on his lips. “Remember what Buddy Rich said: ‘If you don’t have ability, you wind up playing in a rock band.’ Something we can all keep in mind.” Her mouth quirks into a grin. “Even if he was a jazz player.”  
Bitty laughs appropriately, but even to his own ears it sounds stilted and awkward. The image of Jack’s tattooed fingers working furiously over his fretboard swims into his mind. He thanks Nadya, makes obligatory and perfunctory promises, and can’t get out of there fast enough. There’s something rising in his throat, something hot and roiling. He feels sick.

He’s almost at a jog and doesn’t stop moving until he bursts out of the stage door and drops his satchel to the ground. He leans over and props himself up with hands on his knees, taking gulping and shuddered breaths. There’s an acrid taste in his mouth. Tears prick in to his eyes, and not just because of the panic that’s coursing through his body.

“Bittle?”

And that’s when Bitty does start to cry, in earnest, because of course, of course he’d be found by Jack fucking Zimmermann when he’s having a mental breakdown.

He straightens up, tears now veritably streaming down his face, and says, “Oh, hi!” as brightly as he can. “What are you doing here?”  
Jack squints at him. He’s got a guitar case slung over his back, and is wearing a crew-neck sweatshirt with his shorts. He’s got a beanie on. Bitty can’t figure him out.

“Bittle –“ Jack begins again, then cuts himself off. He presses his lips together briefly, a hard line, before his tongue darts out to lick them. “You headed home?”  
“Yup.” Bitty ducks down to retrieve his discarded bag, attempting to hide the way he wipes his eyes with his sleeve.  
“I’ll walk with you.”  
“Oh, no, Jack. You don’t need to do that.”  
“I know.” He doesn’t make any move to walk off, fixing Bitty with a calm gaze. “I want to, though.”  
Bitty sighs. “Alright. Come on, then.”

They fall in to step, close enough that Jack’s elbow, protruding from the way his hands are pocketed, bumps regularly into Bitty’s side. He’s struck by the ridiculous urge to loop his own arm through Jack’s. They’re silent until they round the building and Jack makes a beeline for the riverside path, illuminated only by the yellowy streetlamps. It’s when their feet are crunching on the gravel that Jack finally starts talking.  
“I don’t want to overstep or anything, but – were you okay back there?”  
Bitty affects a lofty and dismissive laugh. “I’m fine. Just – orchestra, and my conductor. I was being a big baby, it’s no big deal.” He laughs again. “Just, you know, questioning my entire purpose in life.”

He means it as an exaggeration, mostly, but from the way Jack makes a thoughtful noise it maybe doesn’t come across as such.

“Been there,” Jack intones with mock gravity, deliberately nudging his elbow against Bitty’s ribs. The quiet chuckle it pushes out of Bitty is real. “Isn’t that what college is for, though? Contemplating the meaning of existence and ultimately becoming jaded and nihilistic? I mean, preferably, you don’t make yourself throw up while figuring it out, but you do what you gotta do, Bittle.”  
“Hush, you,” Bitty tells him, as firm as he can through the bashful grin he can feel on his own face.  
“In all seriousness, though, Bits.” At the nickname, Bitty looks up at him. Jack’s expression is soft and careful. “If you ever want to talk about anything. I know I’m sometimes… hard to talk to. And you may prefer to go do Shitty, or Lardo. They’re good at this kind of stuff. But, if you wanted. You can always call me.” Bitty finds himself nodding dumbly, unable to do much else. Jack sets his jaw and says, “Good,” firm satisfaction in his voice.

The crunching of another set of feet makes Bitty look away. It’s actually two people, a couple, walking with the guy’s arm around the girl’s shoulders. They’re not talking, but they both fix eyes on Jack and Bitty as they approach. Bitty has the distinct feeling of being gawked at.

They pass, and Bitty hears their voices break out in a hushed whisper as soon as they are a few steps gone. Bitty chortles to himself; this conspiratorial astonishment seems to be the generalized reaction to an encounter with Jack Zimmermann.  
“What?”  
“You know, if you didn’t glare at everyone you met, you might have an easier time making friends.”  
“Who says I want to make friends?”  
Bitty throws a startled look up at Jack before he catches sight of Jack’s own expression – a thoroughly self-satisfied smirk and sideways glance in Bitty’s direction. Bitty huffs a laugh.  
“Honestly, Jack. I mean, to be fair, I’ve only seen you meet me and Dex, but both times you were outright grumpy.”  
“Did no one tell you, Bittle? Punks are angry.”  
Bitty makes a noise of disbelief. “You know as well as I do that half of that’s for show. All the tattoos and the piercings? The spiky things? The pointy hair? It’s anger glamorized.”  
“I don’t have any piercings.”  
“And that’s my point exactly. Like, people have this idea of what punk is, but I haven’t seen anything like that since I’ve been hanging out with you guys.”  
Jack hums, and Bitty thinks momentarily that’s the only reply he’s going to make. He takes in a breath and opens his mouth to continue, before Jack’s voice breaks out again, slow and thoughtful.

“Punk isn’t about the look, actually. That was part of it originally, because it was the easiest and most obvious way to show dissent, but really it’s about protest, and being apart from… everything. Like, anti-capitalist, anti-class. Anti-racism. Anti-sexism.”

He pauses, and Bitty once again makes the mistake of thinking he’s finished. He looks up to Jack, and finds he’s being watched. The street lamps, golden and soft in the light they’re casting across the path, turn Jack’s eyes pale and his face angular. Their glow glances off his cheekbones and the line of his nose, the strength in his jaw, and Bitty finds himself smiling. Jack doesn’t smile back, but keeps his eyes on Bitty with a decided intensity.

“Anti-homophobia,” Jack continues, and Bitty snaps his gaze forward again. He’s not sure what to do. There’s something unsaid in Jack’s look, an acknowledgement, and Bitty is definitely not ready to broach that topic yet. Thankfully, Jack doesn’t leave it there. “Anti-transphobia, anti-fascist, pro-union, whatever. It’s angry because it’s being made by people who are having shit thrown at them. And that’s why – why the tattoos and the destroyed clothes and stuff. It’s like, ‘well, you hate me anyway, so why should I look how you want me to look?’” Out of the corner of his eye, Bitty can see that Jack is still watching him. “Tattoos are associated with prisoners and gangs because these are already people who were outside of society, so they marked themselves as being outside of society. That’s what we keep doing. And, like, not for nothing, but they look fucking cool.”

Bitty turns a surprised grin on him, and he grins back.

“And, you know,” Jack’s smile fades in increments, though he keeps his eyes fixed on Bitty’s, “when I feel strongly about something, I want it around me for as long as possible.”

Bitty doesn’t know how he keeps walking, because it feels as though his entire body locks up. He can’t seem to close his mouth or his eyes, lips slightly parted and eyes wide as they can go. He manages to make a noise which might resemble “Oh.”

“You should play with us on Friday.”

Bitty has left his brain a good ten feet back, flopped onto the gravel path, so he doesn’t immediately process what Jack says. It even takes him a moment to register that Jack is looking at him with expectation, clearly wanting a reply.  
“Beg your pardon?” It’s as good as anything.  
“You should play with us on Friday,” Jack repeats. He doesn’t make himself any clearer.  
“Jack,” Bitty starts gently, almost condescending, “I’ve only been playing with you for – for less than a week. We don’t even have keyboard arrangements properly sorted. It’s impossible.”  
Jack makes an impatient noise. “You can play by ear, Bittle, and your improv skills are enough to get us through a twenty-minute set. It’s not like we’re headlining at fucking Madison Square Gardens; it’s the basement at the Haus. The audience will be drunk and probably high. And besides, it’s more punk if it’s not perfect.”  
Bitty can concede on that assessment. “Okay. Yes. I’ll play with you on Friday.”  
“S’wawesome,” Jack says, and strides ahead. Bitty skips to catch up.  
“Where are you hurrying to?”  
“We need to practice.”  
A mildly indignant noise pushes out of Bitty’s throat. “But you just said we didn’t have to be perfect!”  
“We may not have to be perfect, but we still need to be good.”

Bitty sighs, but he keeps pace with Jack all the way to the Haus.

 

* * *

 

 

Despite spending what seems like every spare moment he has at the Haus, and despite constant texts from Jack reminding him of chords or tempos or vocal harmonies on certain songs, Bitty still finds himself fit to jitter out of his own skin when Friday night rolls around.

The Haus basement is bursting with bodies, mostly – as Jack had promised – steadily drunk and mildly high. Bitty cradles his own cup of watery beer between his hands, bracketed on either side by Ransom and Holster as they discuss something to do with Winter Screw. Bitty isn’t quite listening; he hadn’t gone last year, partly due to being unable to find a date, and partly due to not having anyone to encourage him.  
“Bitty, we’re going to start looking for you.”  
He’s startled out of his thoughts, not only by Holster’s words, but by a forceful slap to his back.  
“Oh, um.”  
“We got your back, buddy. So many girls below five foot or whatever the fuck you are. No problemo.”  
“Oh! Well, um, thank you.” Bitty doesn’t know why he doesn’t correct them immediately. He’s not closeted, not at Samwell at least, and he isn’t one to hide without good reason. He thinks back to Jack’s words from two nights ago, and the significant way he had looked at Bitty when he’d said “anti-homophobia.” His eyes catch on a brief shock of red across the room – Dex is there. It makes something click in Bitty’s brain.

“Actually –“ he begins, loud and decisive, before Shitty materializes from the crowd with a grin on his face.  
“T-minus fifteen, boys.”  
Ransom groans good-naturedly, and knocks back his beer. Holster cuffs Bitty across the back of his neck.  
“Tee-bee-cee, little bro.”

The crowd has begun to surge around the makeshift stage area, and this time when Shitty guides Bitty through, he doesn’t stop at the unspoken line. He pats Bitty’s head before leaving him by the keyboard, hoisting his own waiting guitar into his arms to tune up.

Resisting the urge to glance over his shoulder, and ignoring the distinct sense that he’s being observed, Bitty takes up position behind the keys. He’d spent an hour before the party with Jack setting everything up, levelling microphones and adjusting the height of the stand. He taps out some melodies anyway, more out of nerves than anything else.

Bitty doesn’t notice that Jack has joined him until a solid hand clasps on his shoulder.  
“All good, Bittle?”  
“I still feel woefully underprepared, if that’s what you mean.”  
“Hey, it’ll be fine.” Bitty looks up at him, and Jack gives him a slight smile. “I got your back.”  
Bitty lets out his breath in a rush, nodding jerkily and attempting his own smile in return. As Jack steps away towards his own instrument and the mic at the front, he trails his hand across Bitty’s neck. It’s entirely unnecessary, and serves to zap all the moisture from Bitty’s mouth.

After about five minutes of discordant noise as they all settle their volumes and pitches, Jack says, “Okay,” deep and commanding into his microphone.

He’s answered by some whooping from the audience, which Shitty returns enthusiastically.

Apropos of seemingly nothing, Jack launches into the first song with a yell and a violent squeal from his guitar. Something like instinct kicks in, and before his brain truly gets in gear, Bitty’s fingers are on the keys. He’s playing off adrenaline, off instinct, and the song tumbles out of him, frantic and raw. He somehow remembers to sing his harmonies, and after the first chorus, makes eye contact with Jack, earning an approving raised eyebrow.

The crowd screams appreciation at the end of the song, and Jack replies, “Thank you.” He plays a settling chord, and kicks his guitar lead across the floor a bit. “We are Soft Hands. Welcome to our Haus.”  
Holster counts in the next song, and then they’re doing it all over again.

Between songs, Jack offers nothing more than a quick “Thank you” to the crowd, communicating more with Holster, Ransom, and Shitty than anyone actually watching them. The audience are engaged, sure, singing along with the songs and throwing themselves around, but Bitty honestly finds Jack’s gruffness as a lead singer mildly hysterical.

After their next song, Jack does the same thing: wipes his wrist across his forehead, leans close to his mic, and mutters, “Thank you.”

“Thank you.”

Before he can stop himself, Bitty’s lowering his voice and making it overly stern, mimicking Jack into his own microphone. He can hear Holster laughing from the back, and Jack looks over to Bitty with a raised eyebrow.  
“What was that, Bittle?”  
“Nothin’. Didn’t say anything at all.”  
“Oh, really? Maybe it was a feedback echo or something. Sounded whiny.” Some people in the crowd laugh, and Jack looks momentarily surprised.

“Yeah, sorry to interrupt, but we were about to play a fuckin’ song. You two can pull pigtails later on.” Shitty says this into his own mic, hands at the ready on his guitar, his eyebrows raised but his tone obviously teasing. The crowd reacts: there are some whistles, some jeers, and someone yells “Get it!”

“Anyway.” Jack finally looks away from Bitty, pulling back from the mic to cough a little. “This is, uh, a song about… having, like, two parts of you and people only see one thing at a time.”  
There are more whistles from the crowd, a smatter of applause.  
“You know that feeling, Bittle?”  
“I’m playing keyboard in a punk band while wearing peach-colored shorts, Jack. What do you think?”  
The crowd laugh appreciatively, and someone shouts out “They look good!”  
“They do, eh? Show us your shorts, Bittle.” Jack jerks his head to beckon Bitty over, wry smirk painted on his face.

Bitty makes a show of being reluctant, rolling his eyes and stepping from behind the keyboard. He stands next to it and cocks his hip exaggeratedly.  
“Do a spin,” Holster yells.  
Chuckling and shaking his head, Bitty turns around in stages, hamming it up at the crowd as they laugh and chorus more whistles through the room.  
“This is Eric Bittle,” Jack says lowly into his mic as Bitty vogues a little. “We’ve just added him in, on keyboard. He’s doing an okay job, right?”  
The crowd cheers again, and Bitty takes a bow and goes back behind his keys. Behind him, Holster taps out a stuttering, double-time version of the ‘Be My Baby’ drum beat. Ransom hollers “That’s how Bitty do!”  
Jack punctuates it with a decisive chord.

“Alright, are we playing a song, or are we playing a song?”  
“Fuckin’ oath,” Shitty agrees.

They play.

 


	6. we’re just bums, and we like: pussy; weed; beer

 

Bitty has had morning afters before, but not like this.

 

He wakes alone in Lardo’s bed with a start, banging his head into the wall. He fairly yells out “ _fuck!_ ” and rolls on to his back, hand clamped over his forehead.

“Where did that come from?” he whines, rubbing the spot, which is actually smarting a bit.

“Smooth.”

Lardo’s voice sounds from her doorway, and Bitty squints over to her. She’s holding two cups of coffee, and wearing a pair of checked boxers with an overly-large sweater. Bitty extracts a hand from the tangle of her blankets and makes a snatching gesture. She cuts across the room and settles cross-legged next to him on the bed, handing over one of the cups when Bitty readjusts himself to rest his back against the wall of betrayal.

 

“You know, I kept getting asked about you last night.”

“Hmm?” Bitty makes the noise through a sip of coffee, which is thankfully milky and sweet. Lardo has a gift.

“People coming up to me at the merch table and being like, ‘is the keyboard kid on the EP?’ I mean, they still bought it, but they were all disappointed and shit.”

He fights against the smile spreading on his face, trying to look modest and humble. Lardo meets his eyes and smiles conspiratorially back.

 

They drink their coffee in silence for a moment, Bitty allowing himself to wake up fully through the warmth of the mug and the earthiness of the liquid.

“You were good on stage, too. In the songs, and with Jack. The banter.”

Bitty eyes her shrewdly, but there’s nothing suggestive in her tone or expression.

“I get the impression he doesn’t usually engage with the audience,” he says carefully.

She shakes her head, but doesn’t make further comment. She does, however, give him another smile. Bitty returns it with caution.

 

Even though she isn’t implying anything, clearly isn’t judging, Bitty still feels something hanging in the air. He knows it’s his own imagining, but the guilt builds nonetheless. He sighs into his coffee. Lardo hums in reply.

“I’m starving, man.”

Now that, Bitty knows how to deal with. “Let’s get some food in that belly, then!” He picks his way out of the blankets and shuffles across the bed, holding his mug high to deter spillage.

 

Directed by lazy pointing from Lardo, perched on the kitchen bench, Bitty assembles the ingredients for pancakes. He’s flipping the fourth one in the pan, one hand on his hip, when Shitty makes a grand entrance.

“Bitty, you magnificent fucker. Light of my life, fire in my loins. Bringer of breakfast.”

He ruffles Bitty’s hair on his way past, and pours himself a coffee before hoisting himself on to the bench beside Lardo.

“You can make a start on those, if you want.” Bitty indicates the small stack of already-cooked pancakes waiting on a plate.

Shitty makes a dismissive noise. “B’fast is family time, brah. We gotta wait for everyone.”

“We usually go to Jerry’s post-gig,” Lardo adds.

“Oh.” Bitty freezes, pancake mid-air, eyeing them both speculatively.

“This is stacks better though, mate. Like Jerry’s in our very own Haus. I don’t even have to put on a shirt.” Shitty is, indeed, only wearing a pair of maple-leaf-printed boxer shorts.

 

As the newest pancake cooks, Bitty leans against the counter, unable to help himself from eyeing the sketchy black outlines over Shitty’s legs.

“They look different to your other ones.” He says this without thinking, face immediately heating up when Shitty’s first reply is a barking laugh. Unbidden, Shitty rucks his shorts further up his thighs.

“That’s ‘cause I did them myself, man.”

“Sorry, you what?” Incredulously, Bitty flips the pancake.

“Stick-n-pokes. _A spool of thread, a few more good vibes, a safety pin, and a ballpoint pen_.”

Bitty recognizes the lyrics, and gives Shitty a raised eyebrow and a wry smile over his shoulder. He’s not rude, so he’s not going to tell Shitty that giving yourself tattoos with _pen ink_ seems like a gloriously bad idea, not least because he doesn’t feel Shitty has any artistic ability. Regardless, he scoops the pancake onto the stack, and shuffles over to get a better look at Shitty’s legs before pouring the next one.

 

“I did the good ones,” Lardo supplies, for which Shitty calls her “fucker” and elbows her. She nudges him back.

 

Indeed, some of the images are noticeably more controlled, more detailed. There’s one of Oscar the Grouch, another that simply reads _MASS_ , and getting towards Shitty’s groin, a silhouette of a ghost with the letters _JZ_ inside it.

“I like that one,” Bitty says, pointing at a pair of hands making a dog shadow puppet.

Shitty and Lardo both break out in to snickers, and Bitty feels distinctly like he’s missed something.

“What’re you gigglin’ about?”

“Jack’s gonna _shit_.”

Bitty doesn’t think he wants to know the meaning behind that vaguely ominous statement, so he just shakes his head slowly and turns back to the hotplate.

 

He listens idly as Shitty and Lardo natter on about the gig. Lardo had apparently sold out of one kind of patch and another kind of t-shirt, and would have to do reprints of both. Shitty’s partway through an anecdote about the line he’d found outside the locked storage closet in the basement, people thinking it was a bathroom, when he’s interrupted.

 

“Shits, are those my fucking shorts?”

All three of them turn towards the intrusion. Jack has ambled in, scratching a hand over his stomach under his t-shirt as he makes a bee-line for the coffee pot.

“Hey, dude, you slept in.”

“I couldn’t get to sleep,” Jack replies absently as he fills his cup. “Again, though: my shorts?”

“You never wear them, man.”

“Yeah, but.” He leans against the bench next to where Bitty’s tending to his pancakes, taking a sip from his freshly-filled cup. “They were a gift.”

Lardo and Shitty break in to sniggers, and Jack smiles at them in a self-satisfied way before looking down to Bitty. Bitty blinks and jumps slightly; he’s been caught staring.

“Morning, Bittle.”

“Hi, Jack.”

 

“Hey, Jacko. Guess what.”

 

Before he even looks over to Shitty, Bitty can hear the grin in his voice. Both he and Jack turn towards him, but not until Jack gives Bitty a joking eye-roll. Bitty stifles his giggle into his palm.

 

“ _Bitty likes my stickies_.” Shitty says it in a sing-song, eyebrows waggling suggestively. Lardo has taken her phone out and is scrolling through something, but the minute and smug smile on her face says it all.

 

Bitty glances up to Jack, who is outright _glaring_ at Shitty, jaw clenched. It only gets worse when Shitty continues.

“He said he liked the shadow puppet one. He said it was _well done_.”

Jack’s head snaps to Bitty, eyes wide. There’s something glinting within them, something like offense.

“I didn’t!” Bitty finds himself protesting. “I just said I _liked_ it. That’s it.”

Jack closes his eyes, and shakes his head in a dazed way. He’s crossed his arms over his chest, and when he opens his eyes and starts speaking, he extracts one hand from the fold and gestures sharply with it. His voice is just as sharp.

“Listen, Bittle. I know you don’t have a lot of frame of reference for tattoos. And to an amateur –“

Bitty interrupts him with an indignant noise, and Jack stutters to backtrack.

“I just mean you don’t – you don’t have a lot of experience, Bittle.”

“Bitty, how does it feel to know that Jack thinks you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about?”

Jack throws his glare back to Shitty, who is watching them both with a suitably shit-eating grin on his face.

“That’s not what I said at all. Shut the fuck up.” He punctuates it with an accusing point, before looking back to Bitty. “Thanks to Lardo, some of Shitty’s stick-n-pokes look… okay.” The admittance seems to cause physical pain to him; Lardo makes it worse by saying “aww, dude. You’re so sweet.” Jack grits his jaw and continues.

 

“But they blur out like crazy, and he was risking huge fucking infection by doing it, and it’s just. It’s not respecting the art form and the artists who train to do it. Which you’d think Lardo would understand.” He directs a pointedly raised eyebrow at her, which she brushes off with a blasé shrug.

“But, dude.” Shitty’s voice is goading, barely-veiled glee at Jack’s obvious ire. “D.I.Y.”

“I’m not doing this again,” Jack mutters, picking his coffee back up and taking a gulp through his frown. Bitty tracks his movements, eyes catching on something on the inside of his wrist. Something familiar.

 

The outline of a ghost, slightly faded and shaky, with the letters _BS_ inside it.

Bitty points at it. “What’s that?”

 

Jack follows Bitty’s finger with his eyes to his own wrist, and immediately lets out a frustrated _tch_. He wraps the fingers of his free hand over the offending mark.

“A _huge_ mistake,” is all he says.

Shitty makes a wounded noise. “Is that how you feel about our deep, pure love? I want a fuckin’ divorce, Zimmermann.”

They’re all laughing, even Jack chuckling quietly, as Bitty adds the final pancake to the stack and turns off the cooktop. He sets the plate of pancakes next to Shitty on the kitchen island.

“Well, now. Y’all got any syrup?”

Lardo slides off the bench and proclaims, “I’ll get up Ransom and Holster,” while Jack wordlessly crosses to a cupboard and reaches into the depths of the top shelf. He extracts a bottle of maple syrup and hands it to Bitty. Shitty gapes at him.

“Where the _fuck_ did you get that from?”

“Ransom and I keep it up there for emergencies.”

 

Shitty seems to find this mystifying. He tucks his hair behind both ears in a slow and deliberate gesture.

“ _Emergencies_ ,” he echoes, sounding out each syllable, but doesn’t get a chance to continue before Holster announces his arrival in the kitchen by booming “ _Pancakes!_ ”

 

More coffee gets distributed, pancakes are split between plates, syrup is liberally poured (“Emergency syrup,” Ransom intones reverently, sharing a significant look with Jack), and they all sit on or lean against various surfaces to tuck in to breakfast. The resounding – and vaguely pornographic – sounds of approval that come with each bite settle deeply and warmly in Bitty’s stomach with his own meal. The chatter starts up again, and Ransom queues up some music on his phone and drops it into an empty mug to amplify the sound. Lardo ends up on Holster’s shoulders, still eating her own pancakes, and Shitty decides he wants to stand on the table as they all passionately sing along to The OBGMs.

 

“Thanks for breakfast, Bittle,” Jack murmurs to Bitty, bumping their shoulders together, and Bitty beams in return.

 

* * *

 

 

Band breakfasts happen on Saturdays and Tuesdays, and it falls into a pattern where Bitty isn’t even cooking every time. They sometimes do make it to Jerry’s, or Ransom makes them incredible grilled cheeses, or Lardo pulls together full bacon and eggs. Following their early-morning keyboard practice one day, Jack even leads Bitty back to the Haus and starts preparing omelets himself.

 

On non-breakfast days, though, Bitty gets into the habit of joining Jack on his run.

 

They track up and down the riverside as the sun rises, easily keeping pace with each other. Bitty usually runs with music, but finds he doesn’t miss it; there’s something motivating about Jack’s steady breaths and occasional comments.

 

One morning, he notices his own breath coming out as steady mist, and involuntarily sighs with exasperation. Jack casts him a bewildered look.

“It’s nearly winter time,” Bitty explains, although Jack doesn’t seem to take it as such. His expression remains confused. “It’s getting _colder_.”

“You can’t be serious, Bittle.”

“I know how to deal with it, thank you, I just don’t _like_ it. Especially seeing as the settings here are only ‘cold and colder,’ and there isn’t really a point where it’s any kind of warm.”

“I don’t know, Bits.” Something in Bitty’s chest clenches at the name. “I seem to remember a variety of differently-colored shorts appearing at a number of Haus parties.”

“That was _inside_. It’s an entirely different story being in a basement full of hot, sweaty punks all jumpin’ about. And besides, some of us actually experience some sense of physical exertion while performing.”

“Ah. Well, that explains _those_ then.” He casts a significant look at Bitty’s legs, exposed thoroughly beneath his athletic shorts that fall at his upper thigh.

“These are running shorts,” Bitty retorts, probably unnecessarily.

“Yes. They’re definitely _short_ s.” There’s a tease in Jack’s tone, but also a depth – something gravelly and almost slurred that makes Bitty fumble his next step in surprise. Jack, however, keeps his gaze forwards and runs on without acknowledging anything. He might not have said it at all. Bitty might be hallucinating. Thankfully, his thoughts unjumble by the next time Jack speaks.

“Come on,” is all he says, suddenly changing direction to lead them away from the riverside and towards the street. Towards Annie’s, Bitty realizes.

 

It’s only just opened, so recently that the lone waitress inside seems equal parts shocked and disgruntled by their appearance. They’re the only people in there, but Jack still says to Bitty “find a table” like it’ll be some chore. Listless, Bitty situates himself at a table by the window. He looks out on the six a.m. campus, turning mildly golden as the sun rises. It’s an unseen world.

 

Jack sets a mug down in front of him surprisingly quickly, then lowers himself into the chair across from Bitty. Bitty picks up the mug and sniffs it with vague suspicion.

“Vanilla latte?”

Jack hums his affirmation before launching in to something about a band, his voice low and level, measured. Bitty catches a few words – “two-piece,” “BandCamp,” “kind of reckless, eh?” – but isn’t quite processing any of it. Instead, he’s watching the rising light catch on Jack’s eyelashes, the occasional dart of his tongue to moisten his lips, the lazy movements of his hands as he talks. Bitty watches his mouth ticking up in a smile, registers his voice ticking up with excitement, and thinks _oh, no. Stop it, you idiot._

 

The loudest part of him, however, knows that it’s much too late to stop anything.

 

He’s fallen for Jack Zimmermann.

 

* * *

 

 

“Epikegster,” Holster had solemnly explained to Bitty, “is a long-reaching and high-lasting punk Haus tradition. Nay, _institution_.”

“It’s _legendary_ ,” Ransom inserts.

“Its infamous.”

“I’ve never heard of it,” Bitty had told them blankly. It got the incredulous looks he was hoping for.

“ _That’s because_ you’re a baby punk. A fucking infant.”

“Holtzy, they grow up so fast.”

 

Epikegster, it turned out, was an all-day annual gig put on in the Haus basement, organized by whichever brothers were living there. Ransom and Holster were evidently smug about last year’s – the first one they had helped organize – having had the biggest turnout.

“And this year we’re going to blow the fucking tits off last year.”

 

Apparently, _blowing the fucking tits off last year_ involves stringing a lot of fairy lights around.

 

This is how Bitty finds himself up on a step ladder with a staple gun in hand, securing light strings around the basement roof.

“Bits, you don’t need to be here.” Lardo sounds far away, but Bitty knows she’s only a foot or so below him, holding the ladder in place.

“I know. Just want to help out, seeing as I’m going to be reaping the benefits of this mood lighting when I’m playing tomorrow.”

“You know what would look good?” Lardo muses, waiting for Bitty’s questioning hum before continuing. “A line work geometric piece, in a diamond or something, right _here_.” She pokes the back of his calf, taking him by surprise and almost making him topple off his perch.

“Girl, watch yourself; I am very precariously positioned right now.” He looks down to her with as much of a glare as he can muster. “But, no. I think if I _were_ going to get a tattoo, I’d get something small. A picture of some kind, not a design-type thing. Not that those aren’t lovely,” he adds with a hasty smile, having recently seen the intricate line drawings that encircle Lardo’s biceps. She waves his amendment off.

“What would you get?”

He looks away thoughtfully, and settles his hands on his hips, staple gun carefully angled away from his body.

“I think a little bee somewhere. Just like, a fat ‘n’ cute lil’ bee.”

 

“Don’t go near him, Lardo.”

 

This comes from across the room, where Jack is hefting a speaker in to place.

“Um, excuse me. _Yes_ offense.”

“Don’t let her near you, Bittle,” Jack instructs, words laced with authority. He gives them both a stern look before ducking behind the speaker, ostensibly to fiddle with the connections. Bitty and Lardo share a smile, and Bitty snorts a laugh before turning back to his lights.

 

“I gotta say, Jackaroo. I’m disappointed in you, dude. If Bitty wants to decorate his body with beautiful art created by his talented and loving friends, that’s his business.” Shitty contributes this from his position on the floor, hands full with a bundle of extension leads.

“Not if you give him tetanus and he ends up losing a fuckin’ limb.” It comes as a grumble from behind the speaker, Jack now wholly concealed by it.

“Jack is turned off by what he calls _scratcher tatts_ ,” Shitty says to the room at large as though Jack hadn’t spoken at all. “That’s why he and I can never be together.”

A sharp “ _ha_!” rings out from the unseen Jack, followed by a dry and deep, “sure, that’s the reason why.”

 

Bitty forcefully fires the staple gun around a length of cord.

 

A long wolf-whistle brings him to crane his head over his shoulder.

 

“Lookin’ good, Bitt- _ay_. And I’m not just talking about those fairy lights.” Ransom’s head has appeared in the doorway to waggle its eyebrows at Bitty and, apparently, cat-call him.

“Oh, stop.”

“Gonna be fighting those punk chicks off with a friggin’ _stick_.”

“Punk _guys_.”

 

It’s out of his mouth before he can censor himself, hanging in the air for only a moment before he scrambles to turn around fully and almost stumbles on the ladder.

“Shit –“

“Woah, bro, careful.”

When Bitty steadies, Lardo has her arms outstretched to catch him, and Shitty is in a half-crouch, clearly in an attempt to leap to Bitty’s aid. Ransom’s head still hovers in the doorway, wearing an expression of frozen surprise.

 

Jack, however, is neither behind the speaker nor across the room, having apparently launched himself from where he was and darted forward with improbable speed. He’s drawn up halfway between speaker and Bitty, straight-backed and with hands clenched at his sides, a blank look on his face.

 

“Oh lord,” Bitty manages, falsely bright. He wrenches his eyes from Jack to anything – anyone – less conceptually _terrifying_ , and lands on Lardo. “Thank god for those years spinnin’ round on ice skates, or I woulda flattened you like roadkill,” he says to her. She laughs softly, and replies “Nah, Bits, it’d’ve been rom-com cute.”

“Slick,” Ransom says from the doorway. “Moves like that, you’re in for hella dick tomorrow night.” He waggles his brows again, and ducks out of the doorway, and Bitty is left gaping after him.

“Cissexist,” Shitty states as he settles himself back to the ground, returning attention to his tangled cords. “But he’s not wrong, Bits.”

This comment is followed by Jack snapping his head towards Shitty, mouth a thin line and jaw set, eyes wide.

“Shits, we need to – ah. That thing. We need to do _that thing_.” It’s nonsensical, but accompanied by a pointed nod of his head and distinct verbal inflection. Bitty frowns.

Shitty casts Jack an absent look, but on catching sight of his expression, straightens up. “Right, yeah! That thing.” He scrambles to his feet. “C’mon, bruh, let’s – let’s go do that thing.”

Jack ends up manhandling Shitty out of the room and apparently all the way to the staircase, from where an indignant “fuck, mate, _slow down_ ” echoes a moment later.

 

Lardo sniggers, quiet, making Bitty look back down at her.

“What all was that?”

“Fuck if I know. I’ve known Shits for like – what? – nearly two years now, and Jack almost as long, and I can _not_ explain their friendship. It’s fucking weird, dude.”

Bitty eyes her warily, and after a moment of silence she looks back at him. Her face softens into something kind.

“They don’t care, dude. Well, not that they don’t _care_ , because I guarantee you that with the addition of tub juice and weed, a big deal will be made, but – yeah. Like. Punk is so friggin’ gay.”

Bitty files that statement away for later investigation, choosing instead to smile at her, brightly as he can, and turn back to the lights.

“Let’s gay up this basement, then.”

 

* * *

 

 

Bitty had scoffed when Shitty had solemnly handed him an Epikegster Drinking Schedule with an unblinking gaze.

“This is your guide to being at the keys by nine p.m. and not being so bitch-ass shitfaced you can’t see where to put your fingers.”

“I’m an _adult_ , Shitty Knight. I know how to control my liquor.”

 

As it turns out, though, when he is bordering tipsy at five o’clock and wondering whether he can afford to keep drinking, Shitty’s guide comes in handy.

 

He hoists himself onto the kitchen bench, having retreated from the bands to the area of the Haus where people were treating it like a regular frat party. Extracting Shitty’s note from his pocket, he peers at it. Next to six o’clock, in large red capitals, are the words _STOP DRINKING_. Bitty internally cheers; he can grab another drink and go back downstairs to watch the next band.

 

He tucks the paper away and readies to launch himself off the bench, when Jack materializes in front of him. Bitty hasn’t seen him much at all today, Jack mostly busy with corralling the bands and helping shift equipment around as needed, but if the dilation of his pupils is anything to go by, he’s found a minute to take a breath and get a drink – or some substance, at least – in to him.

 

“Hi.”

“Jack! Hi.”

“How’s Epikegster going for you?”

Bitty can feel the warmth in his own smile, can barely keep up with his own words as they tumble out of his mouth. “It’s just so fun, Jack. You’ve all done such a good job, picking all the bands and everything. They’re hard acts to follow! And everyone’s just so _nice_ , and all _dancing_ and _singing along_. I can’t believe how much – how much fun! What about you? Are you having a good time?”

Jack nods, corners of his mouth upturned wryly. “How much tub juice have you had, Bittle?”

Bitty flaps a hand at him. “Only a couple. I’m barely tipsy. And I’ve still got an hour to drink, so.”

“Well, if you’ve still got an hour.”

“I’m just –“ and for some reason, Bitty needs Jack to understand that he’s _not_ drunk, he’s not, he’s really only just tipsy – “I’m just having fun. I’m happy. Excited.”

 

Jack chuckles, and Bitty hadn’t thought anything of his position on the kitchen bench until Jack is scuffing towards him and putting his hands on Bitty’s knees. His palms are large and warm, and his thumbs immediately dig into the hollows of the joints, and he’s suddenly so close that Bitty can see the beginnings of stubble along his jaw. He’s not standing between Bitty’s legs, not quite, but he could be if he used his grip on Bitty’s knees to prise them apart, and stepped forward just a _little._

 

Bitty exercises every ounce of his self-control to keep his eyes on Jack’s, and not on his hands, or the tracing of ink eking up from the collar of his shirt, or (god forbid) _his lips_ , but Jack doesn’t seem to have the same concern. He keeps his own eyes angled down, focused on where his fingers dig into Bitty’s skin. He adjusts his grip, and runs his thumbs over the meeting of knee and thigh.

 

“You know, you should do it.”

 

The comment is so left-of-field and lacking context that all Bitty can manage is a forceful “huh?”

 

“You should get that tattoo.” He continues rubbing his thumbs over Bitty’s legs, disturbing the smattering of hair there. Bitty finally drops his gaze, tracing over the markings on Jack’s hands: the matching hourglasses in the junctions of his thumbs; the rose; the snarling wolf.

 

“It’s a good concept, Bittle.”

Bitty blinks slowly down at Jack’s hands, but can’t quite think of a reply to make. Thankfully, Jack seems to decide he has more to say.

“You should get them here. Bees – they’re. They’re good, classic tatts. ‘Specially on your knees.” He does that thing with his thumbs again, as if Bitty’s maybe forgotten where his knees are. “Bold lines… bold holds. That’s key. That’s why Shitty’s fucking scratcher shit looks like trash.”

“Hmm, sure, nice bold lines, bees on my knees. Perfect for you to identify my body with when my mother murders me.”

Jack chuckles, and Bitty is sure he _must_ be misreading, but it seems like Jack is suggestively biting his lip. “Pretty sure I could identify your body without tattoos, Bittle.”

 

Bitty stares at him.

 

“Did you just --?” He isn’t sure how to finish the sentence, because it _sounded_ like Jack had attempted a sleazy pick-up line with direct reference to Bitty’s death. He can’t help it; he bursts out laughing. In response, Jack settles his hands more solidly on Bitty’s thighs – definitely thighs now, not knees – and laughs along.

“How much have you had to drink?”

“Only half a beer, Bits. Stay away from the tub juice from now on, by the way. I don’t know what the fuck Shitty puts in that.” He pauses, and his eyes flicker over Bitty’s face thoughtfully. “And don’t smoke anything he gives you, either. It will make you much too open to suggestion. Learned that lesson the hard way.” He twists his arm around so his wrist, and the shaky-lined ghost tattoo, are bared. Bitty laughs softly.

 

“Come on.” Jack pats Bitty’s legs, once, and jerks his head behind him.

“Come on?”

“Come downstairs.”

“Oh. Okay.” Bitty’s more than a little dazed, and when he doesn’t make a move to descend from the bench, Jack just grips him around the waist and hauls him off.

“Jack _Zimmer_ mann, I am not here for you to throw around at your will. Wrestle with Holster or Shitty if you wanna get physical.”

Jack just snorts and positions himself behind Bitty with his hands on his shoulders, using his grip to gently guide Bitty through the milling crowd and down to the basement – the basement, where interlude music is playing loudly on the speakers, and the gathering of people are even more loudly screaming the lyrics.

“Fuck,” Jack says, and pushes closer in behind Bitty, forcing him to speed up as they weave through the dancing bodies toward a particularly vocal cluster.

 

Jack is immediately pulled under Shitty’s arm, and Holster does the same to Bitty, the yelling momentarily deviating from the lyrics to mindless noises of glee. Jack loops a free arm back around Bitty’s shoulders, closing them all and Ransom and Lardo into their own little circle, a knot of ecstasy in a crowd of joy.

 

Bitty can hear Jack’s voice above everyone else’s, the deep rasp he sings in, still in tune despite the fierce grin on his mouth and the reckless abandon of his volume. He jostles Bitty against his side, tucking him tighter under his arm, and smiles down through the words as he sings “ _I don’t wanna be an asshole any more_.” By the second chorus, Bitty is singing back through giddy laughs, screaming as loud as he can.  He jumps high and higher in his group of friends with Jack’s arm around his shoulders still. He wants nothing but this for always.

 

* * *

 

 

By the time their set rolls around, Bitty isn’t sure how none of them have lost their voices. He chugs a quart of pineapple juice at Jack’s instruction. Jack grimaces as Shitty comments “lube up those vocal chords, Bits. Lube ‘em right up,” but nods resignedly.

 

Their energy is still high on the stage, and although Jack becomes more focused and subdued when he’s behind the mic, he doesn’t revert back to the stoic, strong-and-silent front man he’d been at their first gig together. He keeps up commentary between songs, frequently deferring to Bitty for chirps, throwing him approving nods and smiles as the crowd also express their approval.

 

“This song is about… uh. Bittle, what’s it about?”

“I don’t fucking know, Jack, I didn’t write it. What is it that you jock types find song-worthy?” The crowd jeers a bit, and Jack shakes his head through a laugh. “All those pop-punk songs about all those girls that didn’t love all those gross boys. I should find them. Start a band with _them_.”

Holster guffaws from the drum kit, and Shitty drawls “ _ayyyyyy_ ” into his mic. The crowd laughs, and there are some whistles.

“Oh yeah? What would you write about? In your band of heart-breakers.”

“I don’t know. Maybe we’d sing about how –“ Bitty grins at Jack, who’s still leaning in to his microphone, but watching Bitty with a pointed brow – “how fuckin’ dumb boys are.” There’s a chorus of laughter and applause from the crowd, and someone hollers out “ _So fucking dumb!_ ” Bitty points in the general direction, but doesn’t take his eyes off Jack. “See, they know. That person out there _knows_.” There’s an answering “ _yeah!_ ”

Holster’s still laughing.

 

“What are you called? Your new band.”

Bitty hums thoughtfully, before grasping the microphone with both hands and leaning in close. “How about: _Fuck You, Jack Zimmermann_.”

Jack spins away from the microphone almost instantly, nearly doubled over with his laughter. He’s not audible over the crowd, who are now whooping and cheering with abandon, but Bitty can see the redness sketched across his cheekbones. He knows his own grin is the epitome of _shit-eating_.

 

Jack regains some semblance of his composure, and steps back to the mic.

“Alright –“ he huffs another weak laugh, and looks to Bitty as he runs his thumb over his chin under a persistent smirk. “So, like every other song of ours, this is about… some boring whiny jock shit, or something.” There’s still a laugh in his voice as he sings the first line, and the crowd immediately jumps to screaming every lyric back at him. Jack does the entire song through a smile.

 

* * *

 

 

Post-set, Jack gravitates again to Bitty’s side, and fits a broad hand across the back of his neck, trailing next to him as Bitty leaves the stage area.

“Great set, Bits. Great fucking set. You were so tight on the keys, and playing off the audience… that high note at the end there? Nice.”

“Well, I’ve had some good guidance.”

“Yeah? I heard some asshole is getting you up at four in the morning. Kind of hard on you.”

“I don’t mind so much. He’s good to talk to.”

 

They end up near the keg, Jack letting go of Bitty to lean his shoulder against the wall and loom over him. And Bitty does feel loomed over – feels Jack leaning in close so their conversation becomes almost private and conspiratorial. Bitty indulges himself, and brushes his arm against Jack’s stomach.

“Uh, I’ve been meaning to ask you. About some bands.” Bitty’s cheeks go hot, and he can’t quite look at Jack right now, and feels a teenager all over again. “Lardo said something about – um. Gay punk bands? And you know, like, every band, so I was wondering if you knew – if. If there were any. I mean, I’m not saying _you_ – I just mean, surely you’ve come across some that are.” He wishes Jack would interrupt him, but he also can’t look. “Lord, I’m rambling.”

“I’ve already given you some.”

Bitty snaps to look at him, eyebrows flying into his hairline. The look he gets back is mild surprise.

 

“What?”

“If you’ve listened to what I’ve given you, you’ve already got some. Uh, Hunx and His Punx? The Spook School? Martha? One Night Stand in North Dakota?” Bitty fights back a cough as the last words cross Jack’s lips. “I don’t know if I’ve told you about Pansy Division yet, but they’re pretty classic. Kind of – uh, kind of vulgar, eh, but it’s in-your-face and funny. Like blink-182, but. Yeah. Gay.” He frowns thoughtfully. “And I mean, arguably, heaps of supposedly more bro-y, emo-type bands carry a lot of unmentioned, uh… homoeroticism, I guess.” He huffs a laugh. “I sound like I’m trying to be Shitty. Anyway, there’s a lot out there. If you wanted to… I mean, if you wanted me to. Show you.” He finishes slightly lamely, more than a little awkward, giving Bitty a look he clearly thinks is pointed but Bitty isn’t sure the meaning of.

“I always like the music you give me. You’ve got, like… the best taste, Jack. And I can’t believe I didn’t – _oh!_ ”

 

His exclamation makes Jack startle minutely.

“ _It’s coyness BOY that caught you out_!” he sings with astonishment. “I can’t believe I didn’t fucking realize.” Jack raises a clearly skeptical brow. “I just, I wasn’t – I always had it on in the background, kind of idly listening, I didn’t really take in what they were singin’ about. Oh, my god. And I was just making huge _assumptions_ , that because it was _you_ who told me about these bands, that there was no _way_ they would be – um. Well.” He trails off as Jack’s brows lower into a frown, disbelief giving way to confusion. There is also, in the barest sense, a hint of hurt in his expression.

“What do you mean, because it was me?”

“I mean, Jack. It’s you. You’re all…” Unsure how to finish that comment, Bitty settles for gesturing to Jack’s general person. He’s wearing a red flannel with the sleeves rolled up, and a pair of jeans with one knee in tatters – probably even because of wear over time, not because of aesthetic distressing. Jack looks down at himself, confusion deepening.

“Wouldn’t have taken you as one to stereotype, Bittle.”

 

Bitty makes an involuntary disgruntled noise and slaps a hand across Jack’s chest. “Don’t try and guilt trip me, Mister Zimmermann. I was _not_ stereotyping. I was making generalizations based upon experience and previous encounters. It’s called self-preservation.”

“And yet I’m over here trying my hardest not to assume anything. Anything at all. Just, like, quietly hoping.”

He turns serious eyes on Bitty, and Bitty feels his own widen _impossibly_ in response. He sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, a nervous tic, and observes as Jack’s eyes flicker down to his mouth.

 

He lets his lip loose.

 

“Bits –“

“Zimms.”

 

Their gazes tear from each other towards the new voice, Jack letting out an impatient noise. Bitty takes in the newcomer: casual, easy stance; blond hair licking up from under a backwards cap; flannel shirt a darker imitation of Jack’s own, sleeves also rolled to bare forearms inked with an indiscernible blur of colors. His brow is _cocky_ , his leer is _suggestive_ , and his general demeanor is _overly-confident._ Also, his boots are unlaced. Bitty can’t seem to close his mouth.

 

“Didja miss me?”

 


	7. and hear you say you've never done this before

 

Bitty wanders through the party, unmoored and more than a little dazed. He needs a drink – if only for having something to do with his hands.

“Woah, Bitty.” He turns absently towards the voice; Ransom has materialized at his side, expression a kind of lazy, drunken confusion. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” He pauses, and takes a thoughtful sip of his beer. “I mean, the Haus _is_ haunted, so. Makes sense.”

“Ransom, I need more alcohol.”

 

Ransom grins and throws an arm around Bitty’s shoulders, jostling him against his side.

“That’s the most beautiful thing you’ve said all night, buddy. C’mon.”

He guides Bitty on through the mess of people still in the basement – thankfully, though, away from the room with the keg, where Bitty had excused himself from Jack and that guy who’d turned up. That guy who hadn’t spared Bitty a second glance. That guy who had tattoos, like Jack, and wore caps, like Jack, and whose earlobes were plugged with those spacer-type earrings. They made him look _edgy_. Like Jack.

 

Ransom leads him up the stairs and out to the porch, where Shitty is stirring a huge bucket of the ubiquitous tub juice with a long wooden stick.

“Oh, no, Ransom, I don’t think I should have any more tub juice. Jack said no one knows what you guys put in there.”

“ _False_ ,” Shitty snaps, pointing an accusing finger at Bitty as he draws closer. “ _We_ fucking know what we put in here. And _he_ would too if he bothered to get involved in frat shit.” He stirs the bucket a few more times, and Bitty watches the purple-brown liquid inside slosh about. He mildly can’t believe he was drinking it before. As though he’s heard what Bitty’s thinking, Shitty continues. “But, ah, he’s totally right brah. You should stay away, probably; it’ll fuck you _right_ up.”

 

Bitty accepts the mostly-full can of Pepsi Shitty offers, and takes a sip. He swallows slowly.

“That’s not Pepsi.”

Ransom snorts, and Shitty raises his eyebrow.

“No; this is what we adults call _beer_.”

“I should’ve expected that, really,” Bitty mutters, before taking another swig from the can. He keeps going until it’s all gone.

 

Ransom whistles. “Okay,” he says, “definitely drinking with a purpose, that’s all good.”

“See now I’m having a crisis, because I’m torn between like… abject pride, and something more like fuckin’ fatherly concern.”

Bitty shakes the can – definitely empty – and dejectedly throws it at a pile of already-drained receptacles.

“I should…” he sighs, and looks down at his shoes, decidedly unable to make eye contact with Shitty. “I should go find Jack again.”

 

Inexplicably, Ransom breaks into a peal of laughter. Bitty tries to ignore him, but the glare Shitty directs at Ransom is unmissable: he narrows his eyes and mouths something that looks like “ _shut up_.” Shitty looks back to Bitty and evidently realizes he’s been caught. He coughs in a forced way, lowering his eyes down to his tub juice.

“What?” Bitty demands, resisting the urge to round on Shitty and threaten him outright.

“Nothing, man. _Nothing_. Just – ah, you were talking to Jack, yeah?”

Bitty bites his lip, hesitant. He throws a glance behind himself to Ransom, whose blank disinterest is clearly carefully-arranged and entirely put-on. He looks back to Shitty, who at least isn’t trying to hide his thinly-controlled excitement. “Yes, we were talking.”

Shitty grins at him, brightly and fiercely, but only for a moment before it slips away again. “But you’re… not _still_ talking?”

Bitty folds his arms, a defensive gesture as much as anything. “No. We were interrupted.”

 

Shitty drops his stirring stick, and Ransom lets out a noise somewhere between a yell and a laugh. Bitty feels his face heat up.

“ _Not how that sounded_ , shut up, Jack’s not even –“ he breaks off with a sigh, arms still pretzeled across his chest. He chews on his lip for a moment. To be honest, he isn’t sure that _Jack’s not even_ , not any more. He’s not sure of much at all right at the moment. “We were talking in the basement, and then some guy who Jack knew arrived and I thought I’d give them some space.” What goes unsaid is that _he’d_ needed space as well. Jack had been so close, so earnest-looking, had been talking about gay punk and being _hopeful_ , and Bitty – well, Bitty was liable to do something stupid without thinking it through properly. He closes his eyes and drops his head. He feels more than hears Ransom sidle up next to him, a comforting presence that Bitty is distantly grateful for.

 

“Bits – what guy? Jack really wanted to talk to you tonight, man, he wouldn’t let some dude stop him from doing that. Hey, listen, you should go find him and see what he wanted to tell you. Right Shits?”

Shitty hums thoughtfully, and when Bitty opens his eyes and rolls his neck, Shitty is mirroring his crossed-arm stance. He’s also frowning.

“Who was the guy?”

Bitty shrugs, trying to make it look as nonchalant as possible. He knows he hasn’t done a good job of hiding his discomfort so far, but there is still some semblance of dignity he wants to maintain. “I don’t know, I haven’t met him before. He and Jack seemed to know each other well, though. Old friends? Thought I’d let them catch up.” He finishes falsely bright, only serving to deepen Shitty’s frown.

“What was he like?”

“Um.” Bitty extracts a hand from his arm twist and rubs the back of his neck. “Blond? Colorful tattoos? Those earrings that are like big holes?” The things he leaves out are the smirk, the suggestive brows, and the confident drawl in his words. Still, though, the description seems to land in Shitty’s brain. His frown transitions from _concerned_ to _unhappy_.

“It’s Kent Parson,” he says, shooting a look to Ransom that Bitty supposes is significant in some way. The words have some kind of gravity in them, like Bitty should understand them. Still, they don’t actually shed any light on who the stranger is.

 

“Who’s Kent Parson?”

“ _Who’s Kent Parson?_ ” Ransom bursts out, borderline incredulous. He actually slaps his forehead with an open palm. “Yikes, sometimes I forget what a tiny infant punk you are.”

“I mean, to be fair brah, Aces Up aren’t like fucking Moose Blood or TFB. They’re still pretty background in some circles.” Shitty leans back against the porch railing. It’s a weary movement, smacking of something exhausted. He wipes a hand over his moustache before continuing. “So Jack’s been giving you music, and he would like, _not_ give you anything by Aces Up, but they’re getting a pretty big name for themselves. Like, Pitchfork reviewed their last EP.”

“I heard they’re doing support for Sorority Noise on their next tour.” Ransom seems excited about it. Without even having the full story, Bitty is slightly disapproving.

“Nah, that’s just rumor. They wouldn’t be a good fit.” Shitty snorts a bitter-sounding laugh, shaking his head. He throws a look over his shoulder, and cranes to see behind Bitty and Ransom toward the door of the Haus: the music from the speakers sounds all bass, but there is no sign that anyone is leaving. “Parson and Jack, they’ve got history. I don’t know the full deal myself, just that they started Jack’s first band together and then a few years later Parson had a new group of guys and they’d signed to an indie label. Jack doesn’t talk about him much, but last time Parson showed up – fuck, it was a total mess. Jack can get, like, _crazy_ jealous, man.” He swipes a thoughtful thumb over his mouth. “I mean, I trust Jack, so obviously there’s something deeper going on there and he’s got a reason for being a dickhead when Parson’s around. But, yeah. It’s a different iteration of the dude, for sure.”

 

Bitty isn’t sure if Shitty is intending to comfort him, but his words have the opposite effect. Although the word _history_ echoes ominously in the back of his brain, something that comes through much louder is the memory of the way Jack had _tensed_ when he’d clapped eyes on Parson. Bitty had thought it was just from embarrassment, or shock at being _interrupted_. Caught. Ambushed.

 

Now, though, Jack’s real feelings seem a lot more obvious.

 

“I should… go.” Bitty’s already backing away minutely, arms gripped tightly around his waist. Shitty nods gravely at him.

“Godspeed, little brah.”

 

Bitty turns, and pushes his way back into the Haus.

 

* * *

 

 

The basement room where Bitty had left Jack yields nothing except Holster holding Lardo by the ankles as she does a handstand over the keg. Bitty spares them a passing glance before darting through to the gig space. It’s maybe the emptiest room in the Haus currently, only a few people milling about, the setup from the earlier set still waiting and expectant. There’s something wrong about that in and of itself, Jack’s guitar sitting in its stand in a way that Bitty can only describe as _forlorn_. Without mulling it over, he follow his impulse and scoops it up, holding it against his body as he returns to the rabbit warren of the basement hallway.

 

He’s almost immediately brought up short by a small line of people along one of the walls, waiting – inexplicably – outside the locked storage room door. Bitty blinks.

“You guys know that’s not a bathroom, right?” he tells the guy closest, tall and gangly and young-looking in a blink-182 shirt. The guy turns horrified eyes on Bitty, and his mouth falls open into a comical _O_. He throws out a wild arm and whacks the person standing next to him.

“Nursey, _I told you so_ , this isn’t a bathroom at all! Shit, I’m _seconds_ from pissing myself.” He looks back to Bitty, embarrassment now etched across his features. “You probably didn’t need to know that.”

“I definitely didn’t need to know that, honey.” Bitty exchanges a look with the guy’s companion, who has a tousled mop of an undercut and is wearing a pink tank top. “There’s a bathroom on the first floor,” he informs them both, loud enough to catch the attention of the other people waiting in line.

“Nice,” Undercut tells him with a nod, and nudges his friend down the hall. “The guys who are in there did _not_ seem to be coming out anytime soon. Like, I feel it, but Chow was on the verge of a pee-mergency. _Dire_.” Without another word, he drifts off after Chow. The line dissipates, and Bitty is left alone as one can be at a house show, clutching Jack’s guitar.

 

He eyes the door, feeling something lodge itself in his throat. He knocks.

 

The sound is lost in the dull roar of voices and the distant throb of the music, but Bitty presses his ear to the door to see if he can discern any commotion inside. All that serves to do is echo the sounds of the party back at him, reverberating through the wood and sounding underwater. He grits out a sigh.

 

There are at least five seconds where he just rests his hand on the doorknob, steeling himself for whatever may be on the other side.

 

Best case scenario, it’s just a room full of Jack’s extensive collection of instruments, like usual. Worst case… well.

 

He twists the knob, and opens the door, just as Jack veritably yells “Kenny, this is _not fucking about you_!”

 

Bitty’s gasp does not go unnoticed. Jack, standing straighter than Bitty’s ever seen him, hands clenched at his sides, whips his head around with rage simmering in his eyes. It melts into something more like concern almost instantaneously.

 

Parson, on the other hand, takes longer to change his expression, his anger shifting to a smirk through a more prolonged process. Just as gradually, Bitty feels himself shrinking. He grips Jack’s guitar with both hands.

 

“Bits.” Bitty jerks back to looking at Jack, who has a distinct line of worry between his brows. “Are you alright?”

“You – ah, you left your guitar out, and I know how you don’t like – well, I guess I thought I should put it somewhere for you. I don’t know. Silly of me.” He laughs in a purposefully light but detectably hysterical way, and warily flicks his eyes to Parson, catching the wavering tail-end of a frown before the smirk re-asserts itself.

“Thanks, Bits,” Jack tells him, weight of warmth and gratitude heavy in the words. He steps forward and reaches out to grip his guitar by the neck. His eyes land directly on Bitty’s, smile in them that doesn’t reach his mouth. Parson clears his throat, but when Jack steps away from Bitty, guitar in hand, he doesn’t break the gaze; Bitty does, if only in a weak attempt to hide his face, which has probably turned a brilliant shade of red if the heat he feels in his cheeks is anything to go by.

 

“Well, Zimms. Call me if you ever feel like breaking out of basements. Or if you want to see a real band play, maybe.”

“Not a good idea, Kenny.” Jack says it low, and there’s a hitch in the words that hints at uncertainty, but when Bitty looks back to him he’s staring resolutely out the door behind Bitty’s head. The silence left in the wake of him speaking hangs, feeling oozy. Bitty fights down on his own urge to break it.

“Okay.” Without a second word or look, Parson sweeps past Bitty and out the door.

 

Bitty feels the sudden departure ticking beneath the surface of his skin, almost throbbing as pressure – of embarrassment? Fear? Concern? Yes, definitely concern – builds behind his eyes. He presses his lips together, biting down on them inside his mouth. Jack lets go of a whoosh of a breath and drags a hand down his face.

 

“I need to – um.” He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, and Bitty catches that he’s shaking. “Can we, like. Go up to my room?”

Bitty blinks at him for a moment before catching on to what he’s asking. “Oh, you want me to – okay, yes. Yes. Let’s go.”

 

Jack leads the way back through the Haus, until they reach the first floor landing and he lifts the jokey police tape up to allow Bitty to pass under. Struck by some unavoidable sense of déja vu, Bitty doesn’t pause to wait for him, instead making a beeline for Jack’s door. It is, surprisingly, locked.

 

“Too keep the Shitty out,” Jack murmurs, reaching around Bitty to fit his key in the lock. He ushers Bitty in, similarly to how Shitty had done when Bitty had first visited the Haus. Hab is, indeed waiting for them. Its escape attempt thwarted, however, it doesn’t slink off to the bathroom as usual, choosing instead to sprawl on the arm of Jack’s couch.

“Couldn’t Shitty come in through the bathroom though?”

Jack makes a non-committal noise in reply, shuffling over to the couch and flopping down after depositing his guitar in a waiting stand. He tilts his head back until it hits the wall, and lets out a stuttered breath. Hab trickles from the arm of the couch to Jack’s lap, lying lengthways across his legs with an almost palpable disinterest. Jack makes no move to acknowledge the cat’s presence on his body beyond inhaling deeply through his nose. When he exhales, and it comes out shaky and uncontrolled again, Bitty realizes – he’s trying to calm himself down.

 

“Why don’t you pat him?” Bitty suggests, measuring his tone and volume. He’s filled with the urge to go and sit by Jack, but still feels the hooks of awkwardness that have dug into him since they left the stage. He feels out of place. In limbo.

“He doesn’t like it.” Head still tipped back, Jack closes his eyes and visibly swallows. “Bits, can you… can you come over here? And just – talk to me, please.”

“Okay.” Still hesitant, Bitty all but tiptoes over to the couch, and perches himself at the very edge of the cushion next to Jack. “What do you want me to talk about?”

Jack shakes his head minutely. “Anything, it doesn’t matter. I just want to listen to you.”

Bitty’s immediate reaction is a full-body rush of pleasure at Jack’s words, something that cleanses out the feelings of suspension and allows him to settle back into the couch. It’s almost absurd how instantaneous the effect is, how easily it clears the fog in Bitty’s head. But then again, it affirms one thing: Jack wants him here.

 

Bitty tucks one of his legs beneath the other and twists around on the couch to face Jack bodily. Jack’s eyes are still closed, and he’s breathing deeply, and Bitty wants to trace his fingers across Jack’s cheekbones. He doesn’t. What he does instead, is say, “I can’t believe how well the show went tonight, can you? I mean, the songs are really coming together, and the crowd were all loving it. But then again, that could’ve just been the shock of seeing you display actual human happiness.” It does the job; Jack’s mouth quirks into the barest hint of a smile. Bitty keeps going. “You were _absolutely right_ about tub juice, by the way. It always seems like such a good idea when the party starts and I’m just like, ‘oh, how can I get dancey and fun as soon as possible?’ But, lord, I saw Shitty brewing it out on the porch before and it looks like straight-up _gasoline_ , Jack. I can’t believe I consumed that. And you know, it tastes like petrol as well. Like someone mixed copious amounts of syrup, and literal petrol. No wonder it fucks you up.”

 

Jack snorts out a breath that suggests a laugh and cracks an eye at Bitty. “Shoulda heard yourself before, Bitty. Three sheets to the wind.” It comes out high and a bit reedy, but it’s a step in the right direction.

 

“And you know, I just _can’t_ figure out how people say they enjoy beer. Do they have a palate? Have they taste buds that function? I need to start bringing my own damn liquor to these things, because the offering y’all put out is just _dismal_.”

Jack tilts his head to face Bitty entirely, both eyes finally open. His pupils are mere pinpricks, and there’s a greyness in his complexion that doesn’t sit right in Bitty’s gut, but he reaches out with a warm hand and rests it on Bitty’s calf where his leg is curled on the couch.

 

“Are you alright?” Bitty murmurs with wide eyes, hands twisting in his lap and resisting the urge to cover Jack’s on his own leg.

“Getting there.” Jack’s voice is low again, but it is hoarse and dry, like he’s been screaming for the past hour. Bitty thinks that, internally, he might have been.

 

Hab seems to hear him, and rises up on to all fours before pointedly crossing Jack’s lap and climbing over and past Bitty to leap off the other end of the couch. It does this with claws bared, digging into Bitty’s thigh on its way through. Bitty barely contains a wince, and Jack lets out a rough chuckle at his face.

“Sorry; Hab doesn’t like people.”

“Doesn’t like touching, doesn’t like people. You know, I’m calling bullshit on that _pets are just like their owners_ deal.”

Jack snorts. “See, everyone else I know would say that’s proof positive we’re reflections of our pets.”

“Maybe at first impression,” Bitty concedes. He props his elbow up on the back of the couch and rests his cheek in his hand. The other, still in his lap, he moves minutely – only enough that his fingers brush against Jack’s where they’re still clamped around his calf.

 

Watching the points where their bodies meet, Bitty chews on the corner of his lip as he chews on a thought that’s niggling in his mind still. He decides to take a leaf from Jack’s book; he jumps in, headfirst.

 

“What were you going to tell me earlier? Before – you know.” He looks up at Jack through his eyelashes, and finds Jack looking at him with eyes that are heavily lidded, pupils finally larger.

“That you can tell me to back off if you want.” He says it simply, like it’s a suggestion that doesn’t add to the catalogue of Jack’s Cryptic Behavior that Bitty’s been internally tallying.

“I don’t know what you mean by that,” Bitty admits.

“It’s… Bitty, I know I’ve been coming on… kind of strong.”

Bitty sputters. “You _what_?”

 

“Did you – ah…” Jack trails off, and his eyes narrow marginally in what could be called a calculating look. Bitty has the distinct feeling of being x-rayed. “You didn’t listen to the mix CD, did you?”

Bitty squints at him in return, feeling thoroughly off-kilter and – as he frequently does when conversing with Jack – like he’s missing crucial information. It’s a few beats before he feels the internal click, realization rushing down upon him.

“Oh! The _mix CD_. Oh, Jack, I’m so sorry but I just – everything got so hectic so quickly, with practice and that _thing_ with orchestra, and then you kept sending me other stuff anyway, and I listened to all of that, but – the CD is still sitting on my desk.”

 

He’s prepared for an overwhelming wave of disappointment to radiate off Jack and crash into him as guilt. What he gets instead is a mildly surprised raising of eyebrows.

“Huh,” is all Jack says. He clears his throat before continuing. “Well. You should probably – uh, I mean, it would be good if you could… listen to it. Because it might make a few things clearer. About what I mean by ‘coming on strong,’ I guess. And how I feel.” He grits this out in a jerky way, the same forceful determination he uses whenever talking about himself. It sounds so taxing every time, so reluctant, and Bitty can’t help but compare to the raw emotion that rolls off of Jack whenever he’s in front of a microphone.

 

Bitty decides to make an effort. He bites down on the bubbling urge to interrogate, to probe, and instead just nods firmly.

“Okay, I’ll go listen to it. I’ll call you when I’m done.”

 

He slides Jack’s hand from his leg with a gentle touch, and pushes himself to standing. He’s halfway to the door when Jack speaks.

“Bittle, wait. Don’t…” he trails off on a sigh, so Bitty turns around. Jack is standing, arms hanging hopelessly at his sides. They look at each other for a moment, Jack’s face so blank he might not have said anything at all.

 

It takes him three steps before he’s right in front of Bitty and gripping him by the biceps. He looks down with blown-out eyes, pupils dark and full. Their faces, Bitty is glaringly aware, are separated by mere inches. At this distance, Bitty can not only make out Jack’s individual eyelashes, but the singular freckle at the end of his left brow, and the minute scar on his chin.

“Bittle,” he says again, low enough to be more rumble than word. Unconsciously, Bitty feels his own lips part, and then he feels Jack’s parting too.

 

Jack Zimmermann’s mouth is, like so much of him, an incongruence to his first impression. He kisses Bitty slowly, sweetly, with plush pulls of his lips and gentle sweeps of his tongue. He brings his hands up to cradle Bitty’s face – _cradle_ , like Bitty is some precious and rare thing, but something that Jack can’t help touching.

 

Bitty shuffles closer, grips at the collar of Jack’s flannel, pushes up into the kiss. He delves his own tongue in to Jack’s mouth.

 

In response, Jack makes a noise somewhere in the vicinity of a grunt, and pushes one hand into Bitty’s hair while dropping the other to the small of Bitty’s back. He uses the hold to pull their bodies flush. Bitty feels, though it seems miles away, their feet knocking together on the floor.

“ _Bits_ ,” Jack all but growls into his mouth, and Bitty starts to feel the strain in his neck so rises up on his toes.

 

Jack responds to the slight change in angle by shifting his hand from Bitty’s hair back to his jaw. He uses his thumb to stroke Bitty’s cheekbone as they kiss, the tenderness of the touch a direct juxtaposition to the way he lushly and strongly plunges his tongue into Bitty’s mouth; the way he draws back to tug bites at Bitty’s lower lip.

 

Bitty feels his own breathing coming harsh, finds himself gasping into Jack’s mouth, trying to push himself deeper into Jack’s kiss. He feels _undone_.

 

So gradually Bitty barely notices it happening, Jack’s bites become softer and his licks more easy. The movement of his lips turns almost delicate and lingering, pushing long and caressing kisses to Bitty’s mouth between still-gasping breaths that seem to echo out into the silent room. It seems an age before he finally pulls back almost entirely, resting their foreheads together. Jack takes his hand from Bitty’s back and brings it up to frame Bitty’s face, thumb dragging lightly across his lips before ghosting up to trace his cheekbone in a mirror of his other hand.

 

Bitty lets Jack hold him there, his own fingers still twisted in the collar of Jack’s shirt. He lets go, and opens his eyes to – finally – run a tentative touch over the exposed hint of Jack’s collarbone, over the dark lines of ink marked out there.

“So that’s how you feel,” he murmurs.

“That’s how I feel,” Jack agrees.

 

Bitty kisses him once more, for good measure.

 


	8. hunny bunny, you're the light of my life

 

Bitty now knows exactly what Jack’s biceps feel like.

 

This is because Jack had shucked his flannel, leaving him in a cottony-soft white tee, collar ripped and clearly well-worn. He’d crowded Bitty against the bookcase, raspy “Is this okay?” murmured into Bitty’s neck, and is now back to plying Bitty’s mouth with his own, hands firmly cupped once more around Bitty’s face. For his own part, Bitty has latched on to Jack’s newly-exposed arms. He digs his grip into the bare skin, feeling Jack’s warmth, some sensation pricking beneath his fingertips.

 

Jack doesn’t seem to have an agenda, other than kissing Bitty for as long as he can, and doing it in a way that is honestly taking Bitty out of his own body.

 

“What are you doing tomorrow?” he murmurs into Bitty’s mouth, following it up with a series of soft, smacking kisses to Bitty’s lips. Bitty purses his lips back, chasing the contact. Instead of reciprocating, Jack smudges his kiss across Bitty’s cheek, nipping at Bitty’s jawline on his way past, before nuzzling into the junction of Bitty’s neck and shoulder.

“So?” he says, and it takes Bitty a moment to remember he’d been asked a question.

“Um, nothing. I don’t think anything.”

Jack hums, and Bitty can feel it vibrate in his pulse point. “Can you stay tonight?”

Bitty slides his grip up to Jack’s shoulders, and uses the new purchase to push him away and look him in the eyes.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.,” Bitty tells him, as confidently as he can manage. He’s trying to be sensible. It’s a struggle.

 

At his words, Jack raises his eyebrows and blurts out, “ _No_ , Bittle not like that. I just want you to… be here.” Bitty marvels for a second at how Jack can so easily cross the line between moments of pure eloquence, and terse riddles of statements. He scrapes his teeth over his lips and squints at Jack momentarily.

“I really don’t get you sometimes,” Bitty confesses.

“That’s why you should stay.”

 

Bitty sighs. He isn’t sure why he’s even thinking about it; he knows what he’s going to do.

“Alright. Lardo _did_ say I could sleep in her room if I wanted, so.”

Jack reaches up and brushes Bitty’s bangs from his forehead slightly with a gentle touch. “Sit down,” he says. “I want to show you something.”

He steps away to his mini-fridge, and Bitty dithers for a moment between sitting on Jack’s couch or sitting on his _bed_. When Jack turns back around, he’s clutching a Tupperware container and Bitty still hasn’t decided where to sit. Jack gives him a look that borders between bemused and _a_ mused, and brushes past him to settle on the bed. Bitty takes the invitation, perching next to him gingerly.

“Here.” Jack holds out the Tupperware, which Bitty takes with just as much caution.

 

The food inside, he finds, is small and round, with a crust – slightly too dark – and a caramelized-looking filling – slightly too caramelized.

“It’s a pie,” Bitty says, perhaps unnecessarily, aware his voice has jumped up half an octave.

“ _Tarte au sucre_ ,” Jack corrects.

“Gesundheit.” Bitty can’t stop looking at it. It’s not perfect, anyone could see that, but it has been baked carefully, and specially, and smells sweet and thick. “Did you make this?”

“Yes.” Jack’s voice sounds strained, and when Bitty looks up at him he finds that he’s being observed with wide eyes and a tight smile.

“Well, it looks lovely,” Bitty attempts, and it does serve to clear something in Jack’s expression, though the bulk of his nerves are still blatantly clear. “Thank you for giving it to me.”

“I made it for you. Uh, I – I don’t cook, or bake, really. I wanted to make you this because I didn’t think you’d have had it before. I asked my mom for the recipe, but she said she’d never made it, my dad did, and – uh. I couldn’t ask him. I’d never hear the end of it.” He mutters this last part, but it doesn’t sound bitter or upset, just a bit embarrassed. “I got one online, so it’s not exactly like I had it as a kid, but. I wanted. I wanted you to… try it.” He’d been looking down at the tarte, but finally meets Bitty’s eyes again. “I think you’ll like it.”

 

Bitty isn’t sure what to do. He looks back down to the little pie, tapping his fingernails on the edge of the container. Jack didn’t like baking. Jack had gone out of his way to bake something for Bitty. Jack had even tried to get ahold of a family recipe. Jack had been _thinking about him_.

 

It’s possibly the most romantic thing that’s ever happened to him.

 

He tells Jack as much before he can really stop himself, and when he looks back up – eyes wide and mouth ready to take back what he’d said – Jack has color high in his cheeks and a pleased smile on his mouth.

“I mean, it’s not going to be as good as any of yours. But. Yeah.”

Now it’s Bitty’s turn to blush. They sit there, smiling at each other, until Bitty feels the heat in his cheeks start spreading across his face. He looks down to the tarte, and fits the lid back on the container.

“Well.” Bitty doesn’t know how to continue. Jack coughs.

“I’m going to put some music on.”

 

Jack slides off the bed and goes to crouch in front of his bookcase, allowing Bitty time to collect himself. He sets the container beside him on the covers, and kicks off his shoes before drawing his legs up to sit cross-legged in the middle of Jack’s bed. There is so much happening he can’t quite grasp, so much that he still doesn’t understand, so many questions burbling at the back of his throat.

 

He watches, chewing on his lips more to silence himself than anything, as Jack carefully lifts the needle of the record player on his bedside table and fits an album onto the turntable. The needle drops, and silence crackles for a few moments before an unexpectedly soft guitar starts to play.

“P.s. Eliot,” Jack tells Bitty as he settles himself in a mirror of Bitty’s position, the tears in the knees of his jeans gaping to reveal more of the images on his skin underneath. “They’re kinda chill, good background sound, so we can… talk?”

Bitty just nods, not really wanting to start in case he can’t stop. Thankfully, Jack seems ready to take control of the conversation.

 

“I can cook, like, three things. Omelets, steak, and balsamic chicken with mushrooms.”

A giggle bursts out of Bitty that borders on a snort. “One of those things is not like the others.”

“I mean, you just throw it all in the same pan and leave it alone.” He smirks briefly, and casually puts his hand on Bitty’s shin, like he had when they’d been on the couch before. “I’ve never really had to learn. I mean, during my years off in Montréal, I had a nutritionist make me a meal plan that I stayed with.” A frown hints itself around his brows, and he starts to rub circles into Bitty’s leg with his thumb. “I was so stuck on getting back to _something_ , just some level of… I don’t know. After I got injured, I lost a heap of muscle. I could fit in to girls’ skinny jeans.” He laughs softly, so Bitty does too. “I know I didn’t exactly… explain to you, completely, what happened when I was eighteen.”

 

“Oh, no, Jack, you don’t have to.” As he says this, Bitty clasps his own hand over Jack’s on his leg.

“I do. You deserve to know, and I’d feel better if you did. So.” Jack nudges himself closer on the bed, so that their knees are touching. He takes Bitty’s hand between both of his own, applying a little pressure. Bitty allows him to, leaving his hand limp, and watches him with eyes that feel round.

 

“I told you that something bad happened. It was an overdose; I accidentally OD’d on prescription meds for my anxiety.” He says this resolutely, almost confidently, looking directly into Bitty’s eyes. It’s his honesty, and his certainty, that stops Bitty from gasping or making any other show of shock. What he manages to do, instead, is nod in a way he hopes is firm and understanding. Whatever it looks like, Jack seems to take it as encouragement. “The reason why I was taking more, why I lost track, was because the band I was in – ah, my first band – were in talks for getting signed to an indie label. And I didn’t realize it at the time, but it wasn’t what I wanted. It wasn’t happening in a positive way, and it wasn’t what I wanted for us at that time. But, ah, Kent.” He pauses, and Bitty watches him swallow. “The guy who came to the show tonight, he was the second guitarist, and he kept telling me we should do it. That he wanted it, he needed it, and I should too. And I guess I didn’t know how to tell him – no, that’s not what I wanted for us. It was pressure, I guess? I thought that I should want it. It’s what every musician _does_ want, right? To get signed?”

 

He snorts a little, still managing not to sound bitter, and again adjusts his grip on Bitty’s hand to allow him to trace the lines of Bitty’s fingers.

“My dad’s good at hockey.”

Now Bitty snorts too. Jack meets his eyes, the humor in them clear. “I think that’s maybe an understatement.”

“I wanted that. I wanted _more_ than that, so damn much, and then I took it away from myself. And I kind of thought, I may not be able to get to the NHL, but I can… I don’t know, play Warped Tour or something?” He snorts again, this time a sarcastic sound. “But that’s not… I mean, the important thing about punk for me is DIY. It’s basement shows, and putting records up on BandCamp, and recording and mixing it yourself. It’s why I like it.” He cuts himself off, and makes a decisive noise. “It’s why I _love_ it. Making something myself, and making it personal and accessible, and putting it out there like, ‘look at this. Listen to this. I made this.’ I don’t know. It’s probably pretentious of me.”

“I don’t think so. I think it’s romantic.” Bitty reaches out with his free hand and starts to play with the frayed strands in one of the knees of Jack’s jeans. “Like, in the sense that you’re doing it for the creativity and the art, I guess.”

 

Jack leans forward, briefly, and presses a kiss to Bitty’s cheekbone. Bitty feels the pressure there even after Jack sits back again.

“What was that for?”

“For getting it. I shouldn’t be surprised, but it’s nice to hear. From you, I mean.”

“Well, apparently I don’t _get_ everything as much as you think I do.” Bitty pointedly jostles their joined hands, but Jack still looks at him quizzically. “You completely blindsided me, Jack Zimmermann.”

“I thought I was being obvious.”

“Mmm, as obvious as the seasonin’ in my Grammy’s grits.” Jack levels him with a blank look, and Bitty sighs in an exaggerated way. “Grammy doesn’t season her grits.”

“I don’t know what that is, but okay. I guess I wasn’t obvious?”

Bitty rolls his eyes. “I can shoulder _some_ of the responsibility, maybe. I suppose I just…” He sighs again, this time naturally. “I made some assumptions and just kind of… internally shut off the possibility of you liking me back. Maybe I just liked the drama.”

“Oh, you like me?” Jack’s grin is wide and nearly leering, eyebrows raised in joyful teasing. Bitty slaps him on the knee.

“ _Yes_ , if the wanton making out wasn’t enough of a hint for you. I thought I’d made it perfectly clear.”

“Eh, I don’t know, Bits. Didn’t seem obvious to me. I think I need you to say it.”

Bitty huffs a laugh through half-hearted protests. “You didn’t have to say it! Why do I?” Jack just looks at him expectantly, smile getting impossibly wider. Bitty groans. “Fine, okay? Fine. _I like you_. You happy? Now stop looking at me like that, you’re creepy as all hell.”

Jack makes an overly-showy attempt to school his expression into something serious, but when he leans forward to press a kiss to Bitty’s mouth, it’s mostly still the teeth of his smile that make contact. It’s fine, really, because Bitty’s smiling into it too.

 

* * *

 

 

They end up lying down through talking more, about hockey – which had, honestly speaking, led to slightly raised voices – and weird childhood memories, and food, and music, always music. Bitty’s head rests on Jack’s stomach, allowing him to trace the cracks on Jack’s ceiling with his eyes. Within moments of him putting his head there, Jack had started to tangle his fingers into Bitty’s hair.

 

“I keep forgetting to ask you,” Jack begins, and Bitty feels it rumble in his chest, “how’s everything going with your – uh, orchestra?” His voice tips up uncertainly in the last word, like he isn’t sure if it’s the correct one, so Bitty repeats “orchestra” as confirmation.

 

“I don’t even know any more. Things are pretty much the same. You know, I don’t even need to be taking that class? I did it last year and got my credit, and now I’m just… I don’t know. Nadya’s always said, if I kept it up, I’d be primary as an upperclassman. And I thought that was what I wanted. But I don’t know if I was just going through the motions.”

Jack keeps his hand threaded in Bitty’s hair, but drops the other one onto Bitty’s chest and rubs it soothingly for a moment. “Why classical?”

Bitty laughs, once, sharply. “Because they were the only kind of piano lessons I could get in small-town Georgia. I don’t even know if I like it at this point, or I’ve just been… conditioned in to it.” These are things Bitty has not said out loud, has barely allowed himself to think, and now they’re just spilling out to join the music coming from the record player in Jack’s room. He moves his hand to join Jack’s on his chest, and twines their fingers together. “But I can’t. I can’t do anything, really. I’m on a music scholarship; if I drop out of orchestra now, it’ll just prove that. That.” He sucks in a breath. “That I’m just as fickle as everyone said. That I can’t _stick_ to anything.”

 

Jack makes a displeased noise, and squeezes Bitty’s hand. “That’s bullshit.”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s true. Maybe when I quit figure skating, I was just looking for excuses. Maybe when I picked piano over hockey, it was the same. And now, apparently, I can’t even stick to that choice and I’m… here, I guess.”

“I’m not majoring in music.” The comment seems apropos of nothing, and is something Bitty knew anyway, and only serves as a confusion. He cranes his head up to look Jack in the face, one eyebrow raised.

“I know that. I think I might’ve noticed you around the music building.”

“You would, would you?”

“Shut up. What’s your point?”

“I just mean,” Jack lifts their joined hands to his mouth and presses a kiss to Bitty’s fingers, “that there’s more than one side to you, Bits. More than two, or three. You don’t have to be either, or.”

“ _Oh_.” It gushes out of Bitty as a slip of a breath, and he feels his eyes widening as he watches Jack lay even more kisses to his hand. Bitty sits up and twists to face Jack, keeping their hands joined despite tucking his knees to his chest. With his free hand, he tugs a little at some of the tiny, worn holes in Jack’s shirt.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admits.

“We’re talking. It’s…” Jack cranes his head to see out the window, which looks out onto the resolutely dark night, “maybe somewhere in the vicinity of two or three a.m. I like you. More and more by the second, and I already thought it was a lot. And you’ve got a heap of time to sort out where your life is going.”

“What are you, my own personal therapist?”

Jack snickers slightly, tipping his head back in a lazy way that shows Bitty the tendons in his neck. “I probably could be, for all the experience I have,” he comments, dry. It feels like Bitty’s turn to kiss Jack’s hand; he does.

“Thank you,” he says, and means it fiercely.

Jack meets his eyes. “Any time,” he says, and clearly means it too.

 

Bitty drops Jack’s hand and rises up to kneeling, before leaning down over Jack and slotting their mouths together. He holds Jack’s face between his palms, and kisses him softly and incrementally, little kisses that linger in the drag of their mutually dry lips. Jack hums into it, something gruff yet satisfied, and dips his tongue, just once, into Bitty’s mouth. Bitty pulls back with one final press to Jack’s lips, and settles onto his heels.

“We should go skating together.”

Jack sits up abruptly and says, simple but emphatic, “ _Yes_.”

“Fair warning, though. I’m pretty quick. And you with that knee…” Bitty trails off with what is supposed to be a significant look, smile uncontrollably seeping into his expression.

“Do you hear yourself, Bittle? I was on the ice before you were _born_. I may not be up for professional-level hockey, but I skate for an hour a week as part of my workout routine. When’s the last time you laced on some skates?”

“I’ll have you know, _Mr. Zimmermann_ , that my most recent turn around a rink was… only last December.”

Jack whistles derisively. “Nearly a year ago, well done. What was it – Christmas skating on Boston Commons?”

Bitty feels his face heat up, and covers it with his hands, letting out a put-upon groan. “Lord, I walked right in to that one.”

Jack laughs, loud and real, and when Bitty sneaks a peek at him through his hands, he launches himself into Bitty’s space and tackles him to the bed. He uses his grip on Bitty to roll them on to their backs, Bitty pancaked across Jack’s chest, secured there by Jack’s arms around his middle. He can feel Jack’s laughter shaking underneath him, echoing up through his back and forcing his own breathless giggles out of his lungs.

 

They both lie like that, laughing until it peters out into slow breathing, and Jack rubs his nose into the side of Bitty’s neck.

“I’m glad you stayed,” he says.

“Me too.”

 

* * *

 

 

The first thing Bitty registers as he snuffles blearily awake is Jack hissing, “ _Get the fuck out of here._ ”

 

He hadn’t even noticed falling asleep, and yet here he is: curled on his side in a nest of Jack’s pillows and blankets, a warm Zimmermann at his back. A warm Zimmermann who is, to Bitty’s perception, sitting up and trying to extricate himself from bed without jostling Bitty at all.

“Brah, that’s a hell of a way to greet your buddy.” Shitty’s voice sounds overly loud, and Bitty is inclined to agree when Jack demands “ _shhh!_ ” as he stumbles to his feet.

“ _I mean it, Shits, get the fuck out._ ” There’s the sound of tussling, and Shitty exclaims “ow, fuck!” with little care for volume.

“What the shit, man? I just want to know what happened with –“

There’s a slapping noise, like a hand hitting a body, and Shitty again says, pointedly, “ow.” It’s followed up by a long and awed “ _ohhhh_.”

 

“Huh, I didn’t even see him. He’s tucked right fuckin’ in there, isn’t he? Like a little rabbit.” There’s a pause, and Bitty wishes he could see Jack’s reaction, but doesn’t particularly want to deal with Shitty’s, should he realize that Bitty is awake. “Come on, man. Deets.”

“ _There are no deets, will you please keep your voice down?_ ”

Shitty barks a laugh, immediately followed by a pained yelp as Jack doubtlessly whacks him again.

“Okay, _okay_ , fine, I’ll leave you and your tiny lover to your canoodling.” Shitty’s sniggering becomes muffled after a bang that is presumably Jack shutting the bathroom door in his face.

Jack lets out a ragged sigh. As the shuffles of his bare footsteps near the bed, Bitty twists his head out of the covers to blink at him owlishly. On making eye contact, Jack draws up short.

“If he woke you up, I’m going to murder him,” Jack says calmly.

“No,” Bitty tells him, hearing his own voice low and rough with sleep, “ _you_ woke me up.”

“Oh,” is all Jack says, flippant and uncaring. He throws a smirk at Bitty before his face relaxes into an easier smile and he folds his arms across his chest. His chest which, Bitty is now noting, is shirtless. “Do you want me to bring you a coffee?”

“What happened to your shirt?” Bitty takes in how Jack’s tattoos extend across his shoulders and over the newly-exposed skin, perhaps with more gaps than his arms and legs, but still with the same clear and defined patchwork, with each distinct tattoo fitting neatly in its place.

“Uh, sorry,” Jack mutters, looking down at himself. “I got overheated once we fell asleep. I can –“ he gestures vaguely to the couch, where there is a pile of white fabric that is most likely the shirt he was wearing the night before.

“I don’t mind,” Bitty near blurts out, wincing for a moment as he realizes how overly eager he sounds. Jack just shrugs, and clambers onto the bed to sit beside Bitty in his blanket bundle.

 

Bitty rolls towards him, deciding to take advantage of the implicit invitation to look his fill.

 

The butterfly he’d once noticed on Jack’s arm is clearer up-close, still boldly lined and blackly colored. The banner twined around it reads _BE BETTER_. Bitty also takes note of hanging hockey gloves, a spindly-legged spider, a knife, a rose, a snake. Crossed hockey sticks.

 

Bitty takes in the laurels across Jack’s hipbones, the eagle spread across his stomach, the bucket-wearing skull where his heart is. He says, “What was your first one?”

Jack hums, and twists his right arm so the inner of his bicep shows. Two hands fist-bump each other, one wearing a hockey glove, and one not. Without thinking, Bitty reaches out and runs his fingers over it. Realizing, he pulls back his hand as though burned.

“Sorry, I should’ve asked first.”

“It’s fine.”

Bitty puts his hand back. Covering the tattoo with his palm, he asks, “What does it mean?”

Jack shrugs. “Does it have to mean anything? I was eighteen. It wasn’t _impulse_ , like I didn’t rush out and get it, but everyone I knew had tattoos at that point. It was kind of like, ‘well, now’s as good at time as any.’ I thought about it for ages, I was at a point where I wasn’t bitter about hockey anymore, so.” He shrugs again. “It gets to a stage where you’re just getting stuff because you like it and it looks cool.”

Bitty slides his hand across Jack’s chest and stops it over the skull on his heart, patting once before pulling it back under the covers.

 

“I meant it when I said you should get the bee tattoos. It’d look good.”

“And _I_ meant it when I said my mother would kill me. I mean, legitimately, Jack. She’d maim me and then come after you for leading me astray.”

“You’re an adult,” Jack points out unnecessarily.

“And your parents are a badass hockey player and a trendy ex-model; my mother nearly had a heart attack when I got the sides of my _hair_ shaved, and that grows back.”

“Can I just ask you to not call my parents ‘badass’ or ‘trendy’ again? Especially in their earshot, because they will… never shut up.”

Bitty huffs, and snuggles himself deeper into the blankets. “And _when_ , Jack Zimmermann, would I ever be in the earshot of your parents?”

“Well.” The pause drags for a few moments, and Bitty finds himself squinting at Jack from inside his blanket cocoon, watching as Jack becomes progressively more fidgety. “My dad’s coming down for family weekend. Because he relishes the thought of watching his grown son play guitar in a frat house basement at a college. You could. I mean, you’d meet him then. Seeing as he’s going to be watching us. Um.”

 

Bitty freezes.

“You want me to meet your dad?”

“Yeah. I mean, as whatever you want, okay? My keyboardist, or my friend, or. Whatever.” His voice has gone hoarse and quiet, but he’s still keeping eye contact with Bitty, soft and earnest. Bitty can’t do anything but nod. There’s so much there he doesn’t know the answer to, so much he thinks will need hours more conversation and hours more kisses to unpack.

 

“We should get breakfast, but I don’t want to deal with whatever bullshit is waiting for us downstairs.”

“I’m not hungry,” Bitty mumbles. He’d stay there all day, if possible. He isn’t sure he needs sustenance ever again, quite content to live in Jack’s bed and be nourished by Jack’s records and his mouth on Bitty’s.

“Okay. Good. Me neither. Though, if you want, I think we need to brush our teeth.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I’ve got some plans, and morning breath doesn’t quite factor in to them.”

Bitty laughs, and pulls a hand out of the blankets to slap at Jack lightly, but then disentangles himself entirely. On his feet, he leans over and drops a kiss to Jack’s cheekbone.

 

He pads across to the bathroom.

 


	9. i hope you got something out of that deal

 

Bitty makes it back to his dorm somehow, un-hit by cars and without tripping, despite the veritable daze he walked in.

 

It had reached a point of day where they’d been more inside Jack’s room than out of it, and Bitty was becoming glaringly aware of the sun high in the sky and the fact he _did_ have homework due the next day. They’d been sitting on Jack’s couch, Jack’s miles of legs tumbled over Bitty’s lap, Jack lazily murmuring about differences between Toronto and Boston hardcore. Bitty had wrapped a hand around his bare ankle – Jack sitting there in checked boxers and a loose sweatshirt – and said, “I think I have to go.”

Jack had sighed – a deep, put-upon sound – and flopped his head back onto the arm of the sofa. “I know.”

 

It had taken Bitty another hour to leave, Jack being entirely unhelpful by pulling Bitty back into his lap once he’d stood, and then Bitty couldn’t _help_ but straddle Jack’s thighs, splay his hands across Jack’s chest, and lick into Jack’s mouth. It was when Jack’s fingers started inching their way up Bitty’s thighs towards his ass that he finally pulled away.

“I really have to go.”

 

Jack had proved more of a hindrance by insisting that Bitty couldn’t leave in the t-shirt Jack had given him, and his own button-down from the gig was a less-than-good option. With Bitty finally bundled in one of Jack’s red flannels and his own russet-brown chino shorts, Jack had led him through the weirdly-empty Haus and paused at the front door to tug once at Bitty’s collar.

“I’ll text you,” he’d said, and planted a last and lingering kiss on Bitty’s mouth, one lush and warm that had Bitty’s eyes fluttering closed.

 

More than any of this, though, more than the way Jack had pulled back and looked down at Bitty with the most tender eyes Bitty had ever seen, the thing that had Bitty walking through campus like he was walking on air was the text message he’d received before he even reached the edge of the yard: a single, simple, less-than-three.

 

It had pulled Bitty up short, forced a breathless “ _oh my Lord_ ” out of him, and led him to sending a hopeless string of his own heart emojis in return.

 

His phone, unchecked in nearly twenty-four hours, was a blur of notifications – ones Bitty resolved to deal with when he reached his dorm. He almost wishes he had just checked them at the Haus. At least then, he wouldn’t have been so shocked to open his door and find a tumble of freshmen in his room.

 

What greets him is the sight of Dex with an unfamiliar person in a headlock on the floor, a second stranger hooting with laughter on Dex’s bed.

“Oh my _god_!”

 

Bitty’s exclamation serves to halt the wrestling of the two on the carpet, and abruptly cuts off the laughter of the one on the bed.

“Oh, hey.” Dex’s victim looks at Bitty from their upside-down position, taking a defensive hand from Dex’s arm where it’s locked around their neck to point. “You’re the bathroom guy.”

Bitty squints at them, the accusation hitting on nothing that makes it understandable. Taking a moment to catalogue the undercut, the floral arm tattoos, the pink tank top, the gold rings looped copiously through both ears, Bitty remembers. He turns to close the door behind himself, partly to hide the blush he’s sure is rising on his cheeks. Somehow, the Epikegster seems like something that hadn’t quite happened, something quite distinct from the world of Jack’s room and Jack’s bed and Jack’s mouth and –

 

“Did you get to pee?”

 

Bitty blurts it without a thought, aware that he sounds almost panicked, vaguely desperate. Thankfully, he gets a triple chorus of laughs in response: Undercut softly; Dex snickering; and the third party on the bed trilling almost overly loud. Dex releases his hold on his friend, and lurches to his feet. He looks a bit more relaxed than Bitty’s seen him previously. More open.

 

“You don’t mind, Bitty?”

“Mind what?”

“I, uh, sent you a text but you never replied –“

“ _Oh_. I wasn’t checking my phone.” He takes it from his pocket and thumbs it on, discovering that there are indeed a few waiting messages from Dex – along with a handful from Lardo, odds and ends from the band, and one from his mother. He stares at the message preview momentarily, the cheery _Hi Dicky! How are you doing?_ needling at something under his skin. He flicks back up to Dex’s messages and reads them aloud. “ _Bitty would you mind if someone slept in your bed?_ … _I mean if a friend of mine used your bed, if you’re not coming back_ … _Okay, asking for forgiveness over permission_.” Bitty tuts a little, and re-pockets his phone. “It may have been better if I didn’t know at all, William Poindexter.”

“It’s all good, man. I made it again, see?”

 

Undercut gestures over to Bitty’s bed, which does indeed look properly tucked and smoothed, just as he had left it the previous morning.

“Well. Thank you, um…?” Bitty trails off with an implied question and pointedly raised eyebrow, extending his hand in an offered shake. The one that grips his own has nails painted deep purple, and noticeable callouses on the fingers – just like Jack.

“Nursey. That’s Chow.”

“I slept on the floor,” Chow pipes up from Dex’s bed, still wearing the blink-182 tee from the day before and looking decidedly worse for wear. “Your set was really cool, by the way. I realized, after you told us where the bathroom was, that you were the keyboardist in Soft Hands, and fucking Nursey _didn’t believe me_ –“

“—way harsh, C –“

“—but you guys wailed. I’ve wanted to see you live for _ages_ – I mean, like, I used to listen to Aces Up, when Jack… um, Jack Zimmermann was their guitarist, and a friend of mine back in Cali sent me a link to your EP and I totally shit when I realized it was him again.”

“That’s why Chow decided to come to Samwell in the first place.”

“ _Shut up Nursey_ , like you weren’t fucking geeking out when you saw them yesterday too.”

 

It takes Bitty a moment to cotton on to what he’s witnessing: the bickering and the attempts to play cool, the betrayed knowledge about Jack and the band - these freshmen are fans.

 

“Oh! Well, um, thank you. I can… I’ll tell Jack and the boys that you liked it.”

The shared look between Chow and Nursey doesn’t go unnoticed, clear happiness poorly belied by Nursey’s wholly affected “that’s chill.”

“So, uh – you stayed at the Haus last night?”

Dex has perched himself next to Chow on his bed. His expression is blank and his tone lightly curious, but there is an undercurrent in the words and a _slight_ line between his brows. There’s an implication there, one that Bitty is familiar with, one that always makes him shrink. He folds his arms.

“I did. I mean, we all did. Well, they all live there. But I… stayed.”

Dex hums and drops his eyes, fingers picking at the cotton on his bedspread. Something sits in the room for a moment, and doesn’t quite clear when Nursey speaks up.

 

“I gotta say, man, I appreciated the gender neutral bathroom sign. Like, only one bathroom anyway, but still.”

Bitty looks to Nursey out of both politeness and his desire to stop having to look at Dex and his confusion. It’s as much to the whole room as any one of them when he says, “Jack always says it’s not punk if it’s not inclusive.”

Bitty’s eyes flicker back to Dex, catching him frowning into his lap. Next to him, Chow nods enthusiastically.

“Like honestly, if a band isn’t going to support queer fans – even if they’re not a queer band themselves – they’ve got no business being in the scene,” Nursey continues. “They’ve got a responsibility to support those of us who don’t benefit from cishet privilege.”

Bitty opens his mouth to add his agreement to the statement, but Dex lets out an inelegant grunt.

“And how much did those tatts cost you, Nurse?”

 

Nursey throws him a lazy look, waves of disaffect radiating from the flowers in question.

“Is this going to be another one of those things where you deny your participation in systemic discrimination, Poindexter? Because I really don’t have the fucks to spare you about that any more.” The words come out drawling, and Nursey rises to standing with a similar disinterested ease. “C’mon, C. Let’s see if the dining hall has those pita chips.”

 

Chow gets up slowly, with a series of jerky moments, clearly suspended in the awkwardness of the exchange.

“Um, see ya, Bitty! It was good to meet you.”

“You too, Chow.”

“Good show again! Bye.”

“Yeah, catch you ‘round, Bitty.” Nursey throws a would-be-casual smile in Bitty’s direction and the pair disappear through the door, but not before Bitty catches that hint of pure _exhaustion_ in the corners of Nursey’s eyes.

 

As soon as the door clicks shut, Dex hisses “ _fuck_.”

 

Bitty keeps his eyes on Dex, head hanging between his shoulders and hands gripped into his knees, as he goes to settle himself on his bed. In his pocket, his phone buzzes anew. He ignores it.

“Dex? You alright?”

Dex looks up at him, squinting slightly, and scrubs a hand through his hair. It sticks up where he disturbs it, probably still tacky with sweat and smoke and beer from the show the previous night.

“I’m trying with them. I _am_.”

“Them?”

“Nursey. They – I mean, like, that took me long enough. Do know how _shit_ I feel every time I accidentally say ‘he’?”

“Well, I don’t think they’d want you to feel like shit. If you don’t mean to do it.”

Dex looks away, and mumbles, “Maybe.” He wipes his hand across his mouth before continuing. “I’m trying to understand. I’m trying not to be, like, aggressive or whatever. But they went to Andover and their parents live in a brownstone, and – their parents use the proper pronouns. They call Nursey their ‘child’ – not son or whatever. They came out and their mom and dad were just like, ‘yup, sure thing kiddo.’”

Bitty bites into his lip, chewing on both his skin and the right words to convey what he’s thinking. “I think there’s more to it than Nursey’s family accepting them. There are – I mean, I don’t know them, and I don’t know Chow, but maybe… maybe punk does more for Nursey than just provide safe spaces in terms of gender.”

 

Dex grunts again, looking back to his lap.

“My first guitar, I bought with my own pocket money, second-hand. I arranged with my parents to split the lessons fifty-fifty.” He swallows audibly, and seems to be biting down on something just the way that Bitty is. “And like, all growing up, _that_ was punk. It was kids in working class families, and you’d get together and make music after shifts at, like, the local pizza joint. You’d pull gas money to get to Portland in someone’s parents’ car, and it was always guys like you and your buddies.”

“ _Guys_.” Bitty doesn’t mean to repeat it, especially with such a snide inflection. He scrambles to apologize almost as soon as it’s out of his mouth.

 

Dex snaps to look at him, frown in place, retort clear at the edge of his grimace. Before he can say anything, though, he stops and closes his eyes. The sigh he makes rattles as he breathes it out.

“I just, I got here and I heard there was a DIY scene. And I thought it would be familiar. But it’s not.” He throws Bitty a pointed glance.

“It’s bigger than you were expecting,” Bitty concedes. He can’t help feeling wary still, even with Dex trying to be diplomatic and understanding. “But you know…” he sucks in a breath, steeling himself, “the two sides aren’t mutually exclusive.”

Dex nods minutely, acknowledgement more than agreement. He doesn’t make any verbal reply. Perhaps the conversation is over. Bitty has to look somewhere else, ultimately deciding his desk is innocent enough. His gaze catches on a folded paper packet, scrawled over with black marker – Jack’s mix CD. Almost sharply, he stands and crosses to pick it up. Jack’s handwriting is careful printing, upright capitals. Unconsciously, Bitty runs his fingers over his own name on the paper.

 

“I was going to put that on earlier, but I read the track list.” Dex says it like a confession, and when Bitty turns to face him, he does look mildly contrite. “I was looking for music to put on, and that was sitting on your desk but – I don’t know all the songs, but I didn’t think I should play it.” The words sound stilted, more of Dex talking around something instead of talking directly through it, although unlike when Jack does it, it seems deliberate. Bitty raises an eyebrow at him.

“I’ll have you know that Jack made this, so I can assure you the choices would be impeccable. You shouldn’t turn your nose up at unfamiliar things, William Poindexter.”

“I wasn’t—“ Dex starts to grit out, clearly on the defensive before he catches himself. He sighs again. “I just meant that it seemed _private_ or something.” He gives Bitty a look he clearly thinks is significant, and Bitty glances back down to the track list again. Jack’s words from the previous night echo in his head: _it might make a few things clearer… about… how I feel_.

 

“Thank you,” he murmurs to Dex, resisting the urge to hug to CD to his chest. “It… yes, it’s private.”

Dex makes only a gruff noise in reply, just as Bitty’s phone vibrates for a second time. He finally takes it out to check, if only as a cover for the heat in his face.

 

The text notification from Lardo carries an edge of panic, thinly-veiled by the nonchalance of her calling him ‘brah.’ Being fair, he _did_ disappear from the party and wasn’t seen by anyone for nearly ten hours. He sends back a quick ‘ _sorry girl, I was sleeping it off. Home safe!_ ’

 

However, something is made additionally clear by Lardo’s text: Jack hasn’t said anything to the Haus. Bitty sits, heavy and with an ominous creak, in his desk chair.

 

“He’s not going to tell them,” he murmurs absently.

“Huh?”

 

Bitty starts – he’d almost forgotten Dex was there.

“Oh – nothing, never mind.”

Dex frowns at him again. It’s starting to seem like a default expression. “You need to be careful. Leaving stuff like that lying around – I mean, it’s none of my business, so I’m not going to say anything. And like, Chris is my friend, but he’s got a big mouth. People talk. You need to be careful,” he says again, seriously and with a hard stare.

 

Bitty just nods dumbly.

 

* * *

 

 

Bitty has been hunched over his music theory readings for an unknowable amount of time, and hasn’t progressed past the first page. His eyes keep swimming. His phone hasn’t had a notification since his last text from Lardo, and yet checking it is like some sort of compulsion. He can’t settle on a song, angrily jabbing at the _skip_ button on his laptop before anything has a chance to make it through the first chorus. Thankfully, Dex doesn’t try to speak to him.

 

He’s lit up his phone to glare at his apps when it goes one further than a mere notification and starts buzzing insistently across his textbook. He scrambles to answer.

 

“Hello?”

“Are you in your dorm?”

“Jack, is that you?” Bitty can hear the hesitance in his own voice, a symptom of the running circle of second-and-third guesses in his own head for the past few hours.

“No, It’s Mario Lemieux. I heard you were talking shit about the Pens and I’m here to set you right.”

Despite himself, Bitty chuckles. “You’re here?”

“I’m outside your door. I wasn’t sure if you were in, and I didn’t want to talk to your roommate.”

“ _Rude_.” Bitty creaks off his chair and pads over to the door, phone still held to his ear as he opens it. He’s met by Jack, backwards cap and self-satisfied expression.

“Hey,” he says immediately, pocketing his phone and moving as though to lean in to Bitty’s space.

 

Bitty stops him with a hand on his chest. His expression falters.

 

Bitty jerks his head back into the room, where Dex is sitting at his own desk and resolutely not looking in their direction. Jack raises an eyebrow.

“So?”

It’s a spanner in the works of Bitty’s spiraling mind. He gapes for a moment before forcing out, “Let’s go talk somewhere,” and turning his back on Jack to get his shoes and a jacket. His hand hovers between a blue hoodie and Jack’s own flannel, both draped on the back of his chair. He makes an executive decision, and grabs the flannel.

 

He turns back to Jack, arms struggling through the sleeves, and sees the indulgent smirk has returned to his face. Unable to look away, Bitty absently addresses Dex.

“We’re going out. Do you want anything?”

Dex’s “no” is directed into his homework, muffled slightly by the bow of his head.  Bitty gives him his own medicine, and doesn’t dignify it with a response, instead striding across to Jack and shutting the door firmly behind himself.

 

Jack makes another move, this time to crowd Bitty against the wall.

“What are you doing?”

He freezes just as quickly as he’d started.

“Trying to kiss you.”

“Here?”

 

Jack casts a pointed look down the empty hallway, silent except for the persistent hum of the halogen lights.

“It’s not PDA if there’s no one around.” He says this at a low rumble, leaning in a little closer, but making no clear attempt to re-try locking their lips. Bitty reaches out and pats him on the chest, just once, before strolling off down the hall. He hears Jack shuffling to catch up.

“Did something happen?” The hint of concern and bemusement in his voice makes Bitty look up at him, bewildered. He gets a soft-eyed gaze in return.

“No? I just thought we should…” He trails off, gesturing vaguely to indicate something he’s not even entirely sure of. Maybe he means _go somewhere more private_. Maybe he means _be more discreet_. Maybe he means _be careful_.

 

Jack only shrugs and says, “okay.” He waits for Bitty to fall in to step again, and then slings an arm around his shoulders. Bitty twists out of his hold as deftly as he can manage.

“ _Jack_ , what are you _doing_? Someone could…” He leaves it unfinished again, gesturing down the hall again in a way that feels vulnerable. Weak.

“Bittle, what? Do you not want people to see us together?” He sounds put off, injured, and folds his arms so that they ironically sit above the phrase _WE COOL?_ emblazoned on his t-shirt. Feeling something pricking in his eyes, Bitty sucks both his lips into his mouth. He scrapes his teeth over them before he talks, leaving them feeling raw and exposed – just like the rest of him.

“It’s not that _at all_ , Jack, I just know that you –“

“Know that I what?”

“That you’re not out yet, and you might need –“

“Bittle. What?”

 

Bitty wraps his arms around his middle and stares resolutely up at Jack, fighting against the overwhelming urge to look down at his own feet.

“I know that if we do anything, it needs to be hush-hush. And I know that you’re maybe only comfortable with having Shitty know, and that’s fine… I know being with me – being with a _guy_ – probably didn’t factor in to your plans, and I know you need to do what’s right for your life after… um, after you graduate.”

 

“Alright, I’m going to need to you to stop saying ‘ _I know_ ’ before you say things that are totally false.”

 

Bitty’s brought up short by Jack’s clipped tone – it’s not harsh, and still runs with the warm currents of caring in his voice, but it is gently firm. Bitty looks up at him with wide eyes, and waits.

 

“You’ve clearly misunderstood what I want out of this, which is probably on me… I should have been clearer, and I’m sorry about that.” He steps forward and rests a roughened hand on Bitty’s neck, thumb grazing across his jawline. “I’m not hiding. I don’t want to hide you. There’s no _reason_ to, Bittle. It’s not like I’m an NHL prospect or anything. I’ve written at _least_ three songs about being bi – not in so many words maybe, but the idea of duality and realizing things about yourself. Granted, Shitty only knows about us because he bugs the shit out of me and likes to invade spaces that don’t belong to him, but… I want to tell everyone else, Bits. I just didn’t want to do it without talking to you first. I mean,” he chuckles in a self-deprecating manner, and Bitty can’t help but smile back even though he doesn’t yet know the joke, “I asked if you wanted to meet my _dad_. Like, hours after we kissed for the first time. Which probably isn’t such a good idea, now that I think about it, but only because he’ll be embarrassing and will never let me alone about it. There’s nothing secret about you, as far as I’m concerned.”

 

“Oh, _sweetheart_.”

 

The endearment pushes out of Bitty’s mouth before he can stop it. Jack raises an eyebrow.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know where that came from.”

“No, it’s fine. Really. I just don’t think I’ve ever been called ‘sweetheart’ before.” He brings up his free hand to cup the other side of Bitty’s neck, using his thumbs to gently tilt Bitty’s face further upward. “It’s good.”

 

When he leans in this time, Bitty doesn’t try to move away; he simply lets his eyes slide shut and welcomes Jack’s lips to his own. Jack swipes at the seam of his mouth with a careful tongue, and when Bitty parts his lips in reply, Jack delves it inside with smooth, velvety movements that Bitty responds to in kind. He finds himself gripping in to Jack’s hips, sliding his hands around to the small of Jack’s back, trailing them down to rest at the waist of his jeans.

 

Something harsh builds itself into Jack’s kiss, a fervor that makes itself known not only in the movements of his mouth, but in the press of his fingers on Bitty’s face and in his hair, and in the way he shuffles their bodies closer, deliberately drawing them flush against each other. Bitty can feel, all along the lines of his chest and groin and thighs, the solid thickness of Jack, the bulk of him that comes not only from his height, but from the rigorous workout routine Bitty is now more than familiar with.

 

He fists his hands in the back of Jack’s t-shirt, and surges in closer.

 

Jack retaliates by trailing one hand from Bitty’s neck down to his hip, inching it further down to rest just above the swell of his ass. Bitty pulls back minutely from the kiss, lips still grazing against Jack’s, but free enough to murmur, “Watch yourself, Mr. Zimmermann. Don’t touch what you can’t handle.”

“I can handle you,” Jack near rumbles into the space between their mouths, before pulling his teeth softly across Bitty’s bottom lip.

“I don’t think we’re quite there yet, though.”

Jack just hums in reply, pushing his lips against Bitty’s more insistently, but keeping his hands firmly gripped into Bitty’s hipbones. Bitty accepts his mouth back with a falling sigh of a noise, lifting his own arms to loop around Jack’s neck.

 

It’s enough time for Bitty to feel his breath coming in sharp hitches, for him to hear Jack letting out the clipped-off beginnings of groans, when a pair of voices and heavy footsteps echo up from the stairwell at the end of the hall.

 

They spring apart simultaneously, Bitty stumbling back into the wall and Jack holding his hands up as though he’d been burned.

 

They lock eyes, and Bitty takes in Jack’s appearance: his flushed face; the darkness of his pupils; the collar of his t-shirt pulled askew; and the swollen, plump redness of his lips. Bitty is sure he looks no less guilty.

 

When Jack snorts out a laugh, Bitty can’t help but copy him with a peal of giggles.

“So much for not being secretive, eh?”

“To be fair, there’s being open and then there’s being _indecent_. I’m not sure I’d want anyone to see what we were just up to.” Jack smirks at him, and Bitty feels his face heat further. “I have to finish my readings for tomorrow,” Bitty continues, aware it’s a thin veil over his clear _want_ for more of Jack’s _everything_.

“Then we should get dinner.”

“If you think you’re coming in there to study with me, you’re sorely mistaken. I don’t know if you ever had a hockey nickname, but it should be _The Distractor_. I was getting along perfectly well before you turned up.” If Jack’s persistent smirk is anything to go by, he sees directly through Bitty’s lofty tone.

“I’ll sit away from you and you won’t even know I exist. I’ll put headphones in.” He does indeed pull a carefully coiled set of black earphones from his pocket, shaking them needlessly in Bitty’s direction.

“ _Fine_.”

 

Opening Bitty’s door reveals that Dex has still not moved, keeping hunched over his textbook in a way that is surely not good for his neck.

“We’re back,” Bitty announces, voice sounding overly loud in the small room. He settles back at his desk before hearing Jack close the door behind himself.

“What did you do?” Dex’s tone is still absent, clearly asking out of politeness more than anything. He doesn’t even look up from his work.

“Oh, just went for a little walk. I have to finish my readings.”

 

Jack flops himself onto Bitty’s bed, leaned up against the headboard with his legs outstretched.

“Yeah, just came back so Bits could do that. We’re going out again later, though. We’ve got a date to go on.”

 

Bitty doesn’t gauge Dex’s reaction – probably because he’s burying an uncontrollable smile in a book on music theory.

 

* * *

 

 

Their dinner date of a shared greasy pizza and sodas turns in to late-night froyo, Jack’s plain vanilla and adorned with fruit, Bitty’s peach and covered in gummies. Jack walks them with his arm around Bitty’s shoulders back to Bitty’s dorm, kisses him firmly with both hands on his waist, and says, “See you tomorrow?”

 

He is, indeed, there at four a.m. for keyboard practice, which progresses as normal except for Jack resting his hand on Bitty’s knee as they sit next to each other and Bitty plays. They run afterwards, as normal, and pick up breakfast from the dining hall. Jack leaves Bitty to go to the gym for his weights session with a kiss to the corner of his mouth and a warm, if slightly sweaty, hug.

 

Bitty showers in a daze.

It continues.

 

At band breakfast on Tuesday, huddled around a table at Jerry’s, Jack’s arm resumes its apparent new favorite position around Bitty’s shoulders, and the band put on an elaborate show of exchanging money between them.

 

Their daily texting habits multiply, Jack shooting through song recommendations at random, but also choosing to give Bitty insight into his running internal monologue throughout his day. Bitty does the same, adding spontaneous selfies to the mix after two weeks pass.

 

They have coffee dates, and froyo dates, and pizza dates, and Jack takes Bitty to a record shop to scour the shelves. They sometimes just lie on Jack’s bed and listen to albums. Also, Bitty cooks. Jack leans and sits and rests on the counters in the Haus kitchen, watching Bitty potter around making more brownies, muffins, mini cakes, pies. They measure ingredients together, and Bitty shows Jack how to roll a crust, and they sing along to whatever music is playing in the background. Bitty lies on Jack’s bed, and Jack sits on his couch and idly strums an acoustic guitar.

 

It’s a month.

 

Bitty’s straddled in Jack’s lap, Jack leaning up against his headboard, hands splayed on Bitty’s back and fingers twitching their way under Bitty’s shirt. Bitty has his own fingers carding through Jack’s hair, nails scraping slightly as he licks in to Jack’s mouth. He turns his attention to the jut of Jack’s jaw, mouthing his way along and down, scraping his teeth slightly on the tendons in Jack’s neck. This, all of this, just comes naturally: he goes by instinct, mouth leading him where he wants to taste. Huffing a strained breath, Jack doesn’t seem about to complain.

 

“It’s family weekend this week.”

 

Bitty pulls back. Apparently, he’d been wrong.

“It worries me that you’re thinking of that while we’re necking.”

“Necking?” Hints of laughter show in Jack’s eyes and smile, so Bitty drops his hands to Jack’s chest and slaps him there lightly.

“Shush, you. But honestly, I’d rather you didn’t bring up our families when you’ve got me like this.”

“I think if anyone’s got anyone like anything, it’s _you_ who’s got _me_ like _this_.” He slides his hands down Bitty’s sides to rest on his thighs, rubbing slightly before continuing. “I was thinking,” he leans up and pushes a kiss to Bitty’s cheek, “that I actually do want you to meet my dad. I know it’s not been long, but he’s been asking about you and who’s taking up all my time. I need to get him off my back, eh?”

“Oh, well if only to get him off your back.” Bitty smooths his hands across the fabric stretched over Jack’s chest, watching the pull of the cotton rather than looking in Jack’s eyes. “That feels… big. Important.”

“Well, I do work out.”

Bitty slaps him lightly again. “ _Shush_.”

Jack chuckles. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to, Bits. And, like I said before… as whatever you want. Doesn’t have to be as – um. I mean, I can just say you’re my friend. My bandmate. If that’s what you’re comfortable with.”

“…What would you _want_ to say?”

 

Jack falls quiet, rubbing silent lines into Bitty’s thighs for long enough that it forces Bitty to finally look back at his face. He finds Jack watching him with a thoughtful crease in his brow.

“Right,” is all he says, decisively, before gripping in to Bitty’s legs and tipping him sideways on the bed. As Bitty sputters and tries to right himself, he slides off the bed and shuffles over to his bookshelf, pulling one of the cassette tapes from a small cluster on the top shelf.

“Here.” He sits back on the bed, holding the tape out to Bitty, expression steely and determined.

“I’m not sure I want anything you have to give me, after being manhandled like that.”

“Just trying to prepare you for a mosh pit, Bittle. Will you take the tape, please?”

Bitty does take it with a fake sigh, turning it between his fingers to read the label scrawled on the insert.

“ _Cherry Florentines and Four A.M._ What is this?”

“It’s a song. It’s – ah, it’s a demo. Unfinished, I still need to make some adjustments, and this version doesn’t have all the vocals yet. But I wrote it for you. _About_ you. Will you be my boyfriend?”

“You – you wrote me a song?”

“Well, I’ve written a few, but this is the first one I recorded anything for. Like I said, it’s not finished, I still need to play around with the arrangement and the tempo, and I’m not super happy with the chorus.”

“This is completely – _Jack_ , this is just… I can’t wait to listen to it.” He looks back up, aware of the ridiculous grin on his own face, to find Jack staring at him with wide eyes and a clenched jaw. “What? Why are you--?” Jack’s words click in to place. “ _Oh_! Honey, of course I’ll be your boyfriend. So formal.”

“S’wawesome,” Jack says through a new grin as big as Bitty’s, and leans in to Bitty’s space to resume their previous occupation.

 

* * *

 

 

It should say something that during Tuesday night orchestra when Nadya says that Bitty will _not_ be principal piano for their showcase on the weekend, Bitty merely shrugs and settles in to the seat behind the bench. He tells his mama in a text message; she says she’s coming up anyways.

 

It’s only when that confirmation comes through, and Bitty finds himself curled on top of his bedcovers fighting back tears, that he realizes not being in the showcase was the last excuse he had available to him. Now, it’s inevitable: his mother is coming to Samwell, and she will want to know what he’s been up to, and he will have to show her the Haus and the band and the keyboard Jack gave him –

 

\-- and _Jack_.

 

He’s crying before he really realizes it.

He calls Jack. The call answers after the third ring.

 

“Hey, Bits, I’ve got lecture, can I –“

“I’m not out.” He says it through a sob, shakiness clear in the words. He isn’t surprised when he hears Jack’s sharp intake of breath.

“ _Bits_ , what’s wrong? What’s happened?”

“I’m not out, Jack. I’m not. I’m a fake.”

“Babe, I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re out; we’re dating. We’re not faking anything.”

“ _Back home_ , I’m not out, they don’t – my mama doesn’t _know_ , Jack, and she’s coming here this weekend and I can’t have her meet you, I just can’t. It’s bad enough I’m in a _punk rock band_ –“

“—I know you’re upset, but we’re not punk rock, Bittle. We’re not playing in the eighties. We’re just punk.” It’s a light joke, as they go, but it does work to settle Bitty a little. He lets out a tremble of a breath somewhere between another sob and a laugh.

 

“Do you want me to come be with you?” Jack murmurs, and Bitty swears he can feel the vibration of it in his own chest.

“No. No, sweet-pea, you go to your lecture. I can wait. I’m just – just bein’ silly.”

“You’re not.” It comes through whispered, private, and works to keep filling Bitty with warmth. “I’m coming to you, as soon as I’m done. We’ll talk about this.”

 

Bitty may not manage to stop worrying, lying on his bed in general malaise, but he _does_ stop crying, and when Jack knocks on his door an hour and a quarter later, Bitty gets wrapped up in his arms.

 

They talk about it.

 

* * *

 

 

“That studio down the end of the hall is where me ‘n’ Jack do keyboard practice.”

“Ooh! Didn’t you say last year that’s where all the freshmen get put? You said you couldn’t _wait_ to get out of there.”

Bitty pauses on actually leading his mother down the hall to look in the practice room, even knowing it’s empty. It feels like a different space to what it had previously, feels like he would be showing his mother Jack’s bedroom, or taking her on one of their runs. The room contains secrets that will scream themselves out if she so much as looks inside. He nudges her towards the exit.

“Come on; we can go use the kitchen at the Haus to make that cobbler, if you like.”

“Well seeing as I brought these peaches special, it’d be a hell of a waste if we didn’t, Dicky.”

 

He holds the door open for her, and allows her to loop her hand around his arm when he tucks his hands into his pockets. He can feel the buzzing excitement radiating off her, but it only bounces off his own sense of nervousness. He hopes she doesn’t notice that he’s close to sweating with anxiety.

 

“Now, you’ve said I should prepare myself for a bit of a mess, but I do worry you’re about to lead me to a crack house.”

“ _Mother_ , really.”

“What? Did I not use it right?”

“Well unless you’re implying that my friends deal in methamphetamines, no, you didn’t use it right.”

“No need to get snippy, Eric.”

Bitty is well used to that tone, and the use of his given name: it’s a proper scolding. He probably deserves it, for how short and dismissive he’s being of her, especially after her coming all this way.

“I’m sorry, mama. I just don’t want you to think badly of the guys because… they may not look like the kind of good people you get back home.” He draws in a breath, and chooses not to check how his mother is reacting to this. “But they _are_ good people, and they look out for me. I have a lot of fun with them. They let me be myself.” It’s as close as he’s going to get to saying _I can’t be myself anywhere else, not even with you_. It’s as close as he’s going to get to saying _I’m gay_ – on this visit, at least.

 

“I trust your judgement, Dicky. You’re a big boy now; I’m sure you’ve picked some lovely friends. And I have to say – your daddy and I were just so _happy_ to hear you had. We were getting a little worried, honey. No one ever seemed to stick around you too long.”

“Yes, well.” What he can’t say is that kids in Madison were homophobic, and music majors were too cliquey and unpredictable, and he only really feels at home now in a basement full of screaming punks. What he says instead is, “We have a lot in common.”

 

Thankfully, it’s Lardo who opens the door when they reach the Haus. Bitty’s mama eyes her haircut with interest, and tells her she’s “a very pretty girl.” Lardo thanks her, and asks polite questions about her trip. She shows them to the kitchen and excuses herself; she’s meeting her own parents to give them a tour of her studio.

“She’s just lovely, Dicky.” Mama’s voice is pointed, forcedly light. “Very _artistic_ , but she’s got wonderful manners.”

Bitty can only hum in reply, internally thanking every higher power that Lardo had chosen to introduce herself as _Larissa_ , and it appeared that Shitty was otherwise occupied.

 

They’re halfway through preparing their cobbler, Bitty’s mother rubbing flour into butter and Bitty preparing the sweet and ripe Georgia peaches, juice all over his hands, when the sound of the front door opening echoes through the Haus. With it comes two voices, both deep, and loud, and speaking rapid French.

 

Bitty slips with the knife, and a peach goes skittering across the counter.

 

“Whoops! Lord, I’m all thumbs. That’ll be Jack.”

“Can’t use that one now, Dicky; heaven knows what’s been on this floor.”

“Mama, I should warn you –“ he stoops to pick up the peeled peach from near the doorway, aware the voices are edging closer – “Jack’s dad, he’s –“

“ _Bad Bob Zimmermann_.”

 

Bitty’s never heard his mother’s voice like that before – high, and girly, and breathy. He looks up from his prone position, bent double with a slippery peach in his grip, and indeed into the face of Jack’s dad. Jack’s dad, hockey legend Bob Zimmermann. Jack’s dad, nicknamed _Bad Bob_ for getting more penalty minutes than any other player in history.

“Hi, Mr. Jack’s Dad.”

It’s out of his mouth before he can stop it, and he immediately wants to die.

 

“Bittle. You’re here.” Jack leans around his father to peer into the kitchen, locking eyes with Bitty as he straightens up. His face is, in a word, apologetic. This isn’t what they had planned. “We finished lunch early, I guess.”

“We’re making peach cobbler.”

“Not with that one, I hope.” Jack’s dad – Bad Bob – gestures to the peach in Bitty’s hand. There is a large piece of lint stuck to it.

Bitty laughs, and it comes out high and – even to his own ears – hysterical. “No, of course not. There’s plenty without this one.” Bitty crosses to the bag hanging from a cupboard door handle for trash, and unceremoniously drops the peach inside. His hands are still sticky.

“Dicky, where have your manners got to? Make proper introductions, young man.”

Bitty makes the mistake of locking eyes with Jack over his dad’s shoulder – Jack, who seems close to laughter, and mouths ‘ _Dicky’_ at him quite clearly.

“Yes, sorry mama. Um –“ he snaps up a wet cloth from the sink and makes work of wiping his hands down. “Sorry, hello sir. I’m Bitt— Eric Bittle.”

“Bittle plays keyboard for us. I was telling you about him.” There’s a current in the words, in the way Jack smiles back when Bitty flicks a glance at him, that suggests their lunchtime conversation revealed Bitty to be more than just a keyboardist. If the way Bad Bob grips Bitty’s hand between both of his own and says “It’s a real pleasure to meet you” is any indication, the news was well received.

 

Bitty clears his throat, having to duck his eyes down to avoid his facial expression becoming too uncontrollably gleeful. He steps away from Bob’s warm handshake and gestures to his mama.

“Mama, this is Jack’s dad. Um – Bob Zimmermann.”

His mother’s eagerness also doesn’t go unnoticed, but while she titters something to Bob about having all his cards when she was younger, Jack steps around him.

 

Bitty can’t miss the way his mama’s eyes widen as she takes in _everything_ about Jack: his sheer size, his resemblance to his father, his all-black ensemble, his _tattoos_. She edges herself, minutely and subtly, in front of Bitty’s shoulder. He remembers her doing the same thing once when they had been at the bank together and a man with a leather jacket and motorcycle helmet in his hand had come in.

“Mama, this is Jack. Jack, this is –” Bitty takes a breath and cuts himself off, suddenly weighted with the secret significance of this moment, something only he and Jack recognize, if the way Jack is looking intently and purposefully at Bitty’s mother is anything to go by. Bitty licks his lips, mouth suddenly feeling cracked and wholly dry. “Jack, this is my mother. Suzanne.”

Jack extends his hand.

 


	10. but someday that time will run out

 

Suzanne Bittle is nothing if not polite.

She shakes Jack’s hand. She does so with a bright smile and a “pleasure to meet you, I’ve heard so much” which plays as entirely natural despite Bitty not having mentioned Jack before that very morning. Knowing her as well as he does, though, Bitty sees what she’s tamping down on. He sees the pinch in the corners of her eyes, and the fixed set of her mouth. He sees the tension in her shoulders. He hears the pitch of her voice, the way it goes up a note and her vowels round out more.

For all Bitty notices, she may as well have slapped Jack across the face.

When she releases his hand, she presses her own fingers into the seam of her jeans.  
“So, Jack. What are you majoring in?” Bitty knows it’s a loaded question. He fights back on the urge to shut his eyes and block out everything happening in front of him. Jack, for his part, slides his hands into his pockets. The movement draws Bitty’s gaze downward, eyes landing and sticking on the sacred heart plastered on Jack’s kneecap, just below the hem of his black shorts. He stares hard enough that he thinks he can make out the miniscule scars of Jack’s knee reconstruction – the scars that Jack had pointed out to him a few nights previous, a simple line and two tiny dots, to the right of the tattoo. Bitty had run his fingertips over them, and they’d felt smooth and silvery.

“Uh, health sciences.”

This is something that Bitty knew, in passing. Still, his eyes snap up to Jack’s face. He knows his mother, knows the line her questioning will take, and knows that Jack’s politeness will force him to answer and give Bitty information that they definitely haven’t discussed yet.

She doesn’t disappoint.

“Ooh, fancy. And what’re you planning on doing with that?”  
“Um. Athletic training, hopefully for hockey. I’ve been sending out inquiries around the AHL, and asking within the NHL as well. Uh – I mean, graduation’s a while off yet.”  
Bitty’s mother titters. “I should say so! I admire your aspirational attitude. I don’t think Eric’s anywhere close to thinking about where he’s going after college.”

Bitty drops his eyes again.  
“Mother, Jack’s a senior.” It’s as much a reminder to himself as anything. That it may only be a few months since he’s known Jack, and they have more than half the year left, but – Jack is graduating. Graduating, and apparently contemplating a move to any city that has a hockey team that will take him on to their staff.

“ _Goodness_ , I thought you were a little big for a sophomore!” She laughs in a pealing, trilling way, and thankfully Jack’s dad joins in with a quiet guffaw. Jack even huffs a brief _haha_. “Well, good for you. It’s nice you’re keeping within the family business, as much as you can.” The laughter this time is stilted, and as Bitty directs a squinting frown at the back of his mother’s head, he notices Bob lay a hand on Jack’s shoulder.

“So, uh, Suzanne. You planning on seeing the boys play tonight?”  
Bitty can’t help the breath he sucks in, throwing a wide stare in Bob’s direction. He does look down to Bitty briefly, and catching sight of his expression, his own eyes widen slightly. Bitty had deliberately neglected to invite his mother to their gig that night, knowing that she would try to stay should she catch wind of it. The mere _concept_ of Suzanne Bittle at a DIY basement show was laughable at best, terrifying at worst, and that was without even considering his and Jack’s customary on-stage flirting (he may as well call it what it is now), or the now-obviously-queer bent on the lyrics in some of Jack’s songs.

Again, Bitty’s mama doesn’t miss a beat. “Unfortunately not, Bob. I’ve got an evening flight to catch – only one out, I’m afraid! And with the drive back to Madison… maybe next time.”

“Well, your time’s limited, it seems. We’ll get out of your hair, let you and Eric keep –” he gestures vaguely at the kitchen bench, a mess of flour and peach offcuts. “Jack and I just stopped in to load up my truck, anyway. Driving their gear to the show so they don’t need to take multiple trips.”  
“Oh, you’re doing that now?” The plan had been to do it after Bitty’s mother left – when, ideally, he and Jack could do it together. Jack clearly hears the undercurrent in Bitty’s query, directing a slight grimace at him.

“Yeah – didn’t mean to be this early, but. Uh. Sorry.”  
Bitty shakes his head. “It’s fine. Probably better, in case something goes wrong. I’ll, um. I’ll come over where we’re done here?” His own apology is entirely implicit. Jack’s discomfort is palpable in the set of his shoulders, and the way he’s leaning slightly into his father’s hand. He would be standing above his dad a good inch or two, if he weren’t so hunched over. Bitty can empathize; he can’t help wrapping his own arms around his waist.

“You can take the cobbler with you, Eric! All that equipment, it’s probably hungry work.”  
The smile Jack gives Bitty’s mother as he nods is the definition of _strained_ – at least, to someone who knows what Jack’s normal smile looks like. Bitty wonders what his mother’s making of it. With Jack and his dad about to leave, he definitely won’t have to wait long to find out.

“Right!” Bob claps Jack twice on the shoulder before dropping his hand entirely. “Lead the way, son. Wonderful to meet you, Suzanne. Eric.” He gives Bitty one last crinkle-eyed smile that Bitty can’t help but return, feeling his mouth curve up with a rush of gratitude behind the expression.

“Have a good flight back, Mrs Bittle. Bits, I’ll see you later, eh?”  
The use of his nickname, though not unusual, still serves to catch something in Bitty’s throat. All he manages is a dumb nod, which Jack returns firmly. He barely hears his mother returning cordial goodbyes before Jack and his dad disappear from the doorway, the sound of them retreating to the basement echoing up through the Haus.

It’s only after Bitty’s turned back to the peaches and his mother has her hands re-buried in butter and flour that she speaks.  
“My _goodness_ , but they don’t look half alike.” She tuts out a laugh that Bitty parrots back to her, fixating on the peach skin he’s carefully stripping away with his knife. “ _Well_ , except for all those tattoos. Such a shame! He’d be such a handsome young man.”  
Bitty hums non-committally, trying to shake a particularly sticky piece of peach skin away from his finger.

“I just don’t know why Bob would let him go and do a thing like that. Far be it from me to question another parent, but _surely_ they know what it makes him look like. How he expects to get hired after he graduates, I just don’t know.”  
“Jack’s an adult, and he has very good grades,” Bitty tells his peaches, slicing slower than he normally would. “And he knows a lot about hockey.”  
“I should expect so, seeing who his father is! You know, your Aunt Judy and I had the _biggest_ crush on him when we were girls, Dicky. We didn’t all care much for hockey, but even we could see he was a good player. It’s just a darn _shame_.”

Finally, Bitty has to look at her, knife hovering over a peach half. “I’m not sure what you mean.”  
“Well, just that it’s no wonder that he’s not following after his daddy. That’s a boy with some problems, Dicky.”  
Bitty doesn’t snap at her, but it’s a close thing. “What makes you say that? His tattoos?”  
“You know the sorts of people who get them, Dicky. I’m not going to tell you to not to be friends with him, because you’re a grown boy, but I want you to be careful.”

“Jack’s not like that, mama.” Bitty isn’t even quite sure what he’s trying to get at – like what, exactly? A delinquent? A thug? The worst part being that if Bitty ever _were_ to tell his mother about Jack, about any of who Jack is or what they are to each other, he knows exactly what the response would be: _just goes to show, doesn’t it?_

“I trust you Dicky, I do, I’m just saying…” she sighs, and rubs the back of one dough-covered hand over her forehead. It leaves a smear of flour behind, and Bitty is struck by memories of their kitchen in Madison and her wiping streaks of white off his own cheeks. “You haven’t known him all that long, and as nice as I’m sure he is, people can keep things hidden. Lord, do I admire your ability to see the best in people and look past what’s on the outside, but sometimes… the outside can tell you a lot.”

Bitty stares at her. There’s something pushing against his tongue, something like _and what does my outside tell you, mother?_ but he bites it back. He swallows.  
“Jack’s not like that,” he says again, hearing the plea in his words. “We talk a lot. He’s… he’s nice to me, mama. He’s honest with me.”  
She hums in response, smiling at him and digging her hands back into the dough. “I’m sure he is. I’m glad you’ve found a friend, I really am. I just want you to be careful.” Bitty hears the words like a reverberation, hating the sour taste they bring to his mouth. Unknowing of the effect she’s just had, Bitty’s mother laughs lightly, making to scrape the dough off her fingers. “You may be all grown up and going to Samwell University, but you’re still my baby boy. A mother worries. You done with those peaches yet?”

Bitty scoops his final segments into the waiting bowl.  
“All done, mama.”

 

* * *

 

 

Bitty’s mother doesn’t bring up Jack again until the cobbler is well out of the oven and covered over carefully in plastic wrap, ready to be transported to the gig. Bitty holds it in gloved hands as he and his mother wait for the shuttle to Boston airport.  
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come to the airport with you?”

His mother scoffs. “Don’t be silly, Dicky. You’ve got hungry bellies waiting for that cobbler. You be sure to let me know what they say – I’ll be betting they ain’t never had peaches that sweet before.”  
“Oh, I’ll text you mouthful-by-mouthful updates.”  
She smiles warmly at him, reaching out to pat his cheek, clumsy because of her mittens. It makes her laugh.  
“I just don’t know how you deal with this weather.”  
“Layers and prayers, mostly.”  
She laughs again. “I couldn’t believe that that boy Jack was runnin’ around in a pair of shorts.”  
“Believe _me_ , there’s no sense to be talked in to him. I hope you pity me, mother, having to deal with Canadian madness. The northerners aren’t _quite_ so bad, but it’ll be comforting to know at least someone in this world recognises that sixty degrees is not _warm_.”

She tuts lightly, looping her arm through his again. He readjusts his grip on the cobbler.  
“I’m sorry I’m not staying for your concert, Dicky.”  
Bitty bites his lip. He doesn’t bother correcting her, though privately enjoys the idea that anyone would call one of their tiny DIY shows a ‘concert.’ “I’m… mama, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I just don’t think it’s your _thing_ , really.”  
“What instrument does Jack play?”  
“Um. Guitar. And he sings.”

She turns round eyes on him. “ _Goodness_ , who’d have thought? I mean, the guitar is probably _a given_ – he’s very rock-and-roll, isn’t he? – but singing? I can’t rightly imagine what kind of voice that boy would have.”

Bitty disguises his laugh as a cough, imagining Jack’s reaction to being described as ‘rock-and-roll.’ “Jack actually sings very well, mama. And… I sing some, too.”  
“Of course you do. You’ve got a _lovely_ voice, Dicky. I always thought doing classical was a bit of a waste of that.”  
Bitty feels his eyebrows creep up towards his hairline. “Really?”  
“I’d spoken to _that woman_ about it, about letting you play some things that weren’t so old-fashioned and getting you to explore your other talents, but she kept putting her foot down. I always wondered at you sticking with it for so long, to be honest.”  
“I like classical,” he says automatically. It sounds flat, even to him.

His mother snorts. “And if you dress up a dog and call it a cow, you can sell the milk just the same.” Bitty lets out a surprised laugh, nudging her with his elbow. “Alls I’m saying, sweetie, is that you haven’t been happy for a real long time. It was hard on your daddy and me, letting you come all the way up here, but it was what you wanted. He said to me, ‘maybe he’ll get what he’s looking for up there.’ Maybe last year, you were still settlin’ in, but it seems like you’ve got it all figured out this year. We just want to make sure you don’t forget where you’ve come from.”

It’s something Jack has said about bands before, popular ones that started at house shows but are now getting radio play. From Jack, it rings as praise: these guys, he’s saying, have paid their dues. When Bitty’s mother says it, though, it sounds like a reminder. A warning.

Bitty clutches his cobbler a bit tighter.

“Oh, would you look at that.” His mother’s voice is back to being bright and cheerful, buoyed by the arrival of the bus. “Right on time.”

Bitty stays until the bus pulls away, waving as long as he can justify. His arm feels heavy.

 

* * *

 

 

Bitty doesn’t knock when he makes it to the house the gig is at. Instead, he stands by Bob’s truck, parked out front, and sends Jack a text. A minute later, the front door opens. Jack’s got the sleeves of his sweatshirt pushed up over his forearms, and a toothy smile on his face.  
“Thank God you’re here; dad’s been asking me every two seconds about the damn cobbler.”

He steps forward with an outstretched hand, already ducking his head and clearly intent on a kiss; Bitty diverts the goal by meeting him halfway and pushing his own face into Jack’s chest. Jack stops short, arms hovering for a moment before they wrap around Bitty’s shoulders. He doesn’t move to pull Bitty any closer, the cobbler held between them.  
“I’m so fucking sorry, sweetheart,” Bitty tells him.

He feels Jack press his mouth to Bitty’s hair, and feels it as well when he asks, “What about, bud?”  
“I know I can’t control what she does or what she thinks, but – _Lord!_ ” He’s on the verge of embarrassing, rage-filled tears, so adjusts his face to stop Jack’s sweatshirt from getting damp, pressing only his forehead against the fabric. He sniffs loudly, and Jack’s hand finds its way into his hair. “I love her, I do, but she can be so – so! I knew she was going to be rude to you. I _knew_ it. I told you so.”  
“And I told _you_ it doesn’t matter. Hey.” He shifts his hands to Bitty’s shoulders, and pushes him back. Bitty blinks up at him, the grey evening doing nothing to dim the light in Jack’s eyes. It somehow makes Bitty want to simultaneously grin bigger than he has before, and start sobbing with abandon. He settles for a watery smile.

“Did you have a good time baking?”  
“I did,” Bitty admits. It feels ridiculous to say, for the tumult of emotions he had to sort through thanks to his mother. Some things, at least, stay the same.  
“Then fuck everything else,” Jack tells him.

He laughs, a wet chuckle that ends on another sniff. “Oh, yeah? That easy, is it?”  
“Okay, maybe not. But at least you can eat your feelings a little, then yell them into a microphone for thirty minutes, and then you can come back to the Haus and if you want, I’ll kiss every inch of you that I can reach. Only thing being, you’ll have to put up with my dad until we get home. I’ll make it up to you.”

Bitty freezes slightly, unable to help the soft gasp he makes. “Good _Lord_ , I’d forgotten your dad was going to watch us play.”  
“Lucky you,” Jack remarks dryly. “If you could tell him he gives you stage fright and shouldn’t come to the show, that would be awesome.”

Bitty raises an eyebrow at him. “Does he give _you_ stage fright?”  
Jack snorts. “Fuck no. But he _does_ give me stomach ulcers when he launches himself into the pit like it’s a hockey brawl, and when he takes videos that he sends to all my uncles.”  
“Aww, he’s proud of you.”  
“Sure,” Jack says, shifting to tuck Bitty under his arm and steer them both through the waiting front door of the gig house. “But call me crazy, I’d just rather the owner of the Pens _not_ see Shitty playing in his underwear and realise the type of people I’ve decided to associate with now.”

Bitty lets himself chortle before Jack shuts the door behind them and his words actually sink in.  
“When you say ‘uncle’ and ‘owner of the Pens’ –”  
“What, Bittle? Would that be a deal breaker? Dating a guy whose godfather is Mario Lemieux. He held me at my bris.”  
“ _No_.” Bitty affects every ounce of shock and disbelief he can in to the word, already fighting down giggles.  
“Yes. I’m tempted to call up Chára and let him know his biggest fan is a fraud. Boyfriend of the son of one of the most famous Canadiens in history, who also used to spend some long weekends skating around The Igloo. Up in Boston, they’ll start spelling 'traitor’ _B – I – T – T_ –”  
“Stop!” Bitty tries to shove him away, laughing breathlessly as Jack rebounds back from an exaggerated stumble and grabs him around the waist from behind, hoisting him into the air.

Kicking his legs out and still gasping through laughs, Bitty manages to choke, “Jack! The cobbler!” Jack ignores him, breathing his own chuckles into Bitty’s ear as he carries him through the house to a back room.

Their arrival is greeted by Shitty booming, “What have you got there, Jacques?”  
Jack sets Bitty on the ground, but keeps his arms wrapped around his waist. “He wouldn’t give me the food, so I figured I’d have to bring him inside as well.” Bitty elbows him in the stomach and gets squeezed tighter in response before Jack steps away to where Lardo is sitting on top of a speaker, untangling a lead. This leaves Bitty open to being accosted by Ransom and Holster, who commandeer the cobbler and start hollering for forks. Before they can procure some and set about demolishing his masterpiece, Bitty forces them to stop and pose for a photo.

The one he messages to his mama has them holding the cobbler between them, giving thumbs up and grinning broadly at the camera. Bitty pockets his phone and doesn’t wait for a reply.

As Ransom and Holster squirrel away his hard-baked goods, Jack’s father slopes over to Bitty with another kindly smile on his face. Bitty finds himself mirroring it.  
“Mr Zimmermann.”  
“Call me Bob, son.”  
“Oh, I really don’t think I could. My mother might hear and make the pilot turn the plane around so she can come back and ask me where my manners have gone.”

Bob chuckles indulgently, sliding his hands into his pockets in a gesture Bitty is more than familiar with – because he’s seen it on Jack. “Well, you can tell her I said she’s raised a very polite young man.”  
“She’d probably faint on the spot if I told her that, sir.”  
He laughs again, this time clapping a hand on Bitty’s shoulder. It feels comfortable, and comforting, and Bitty’s smile stays in place.

“Eric, I just wanted to apologise if I got you into a bit of hot water this afternoon. Jack made sure I understood that your mother didn’t know about the two of you, but I didn’t mean to bring up the band.”  
“Oh! Well. It’s no harm done, Mr Zimmermann. She barely even noticed.” Bitty wonders if Bob can hear the lie in his voice. If he does, he doesn’t let it show on his face.  
“Even so. I need to learn when to shut my damn mouth; might do to listen to my son once in a while.”

“ _Qu’as-tu dit_?” Jack calls across the room. When Bitty looks over to him, he’s at attention like a bloodhound, ghost of a smirk around his lips.  
Without missing a beat, Bob replies, “I said, ‘Eric, you should dump my son and find someone who isn’t such a fucking smartass.’”  
Jack unceremoniously gives his dad the finger and turns back to his speaker.

“Good Lord,” Bitty mutters, even as Bob acknowledges him with a chuckle. “You know, Mr Zimmermann, you’re probably right.”  
“Eh?”  
“He’s a hell of a smartass.”

Bob punctuates his laughter with a series of slaps to Bitty’s back, and Bitty joins in.

 

* * *

 

 

“Alright, thank you guys, you’re a fuckin’ great crowd.”  
The crowd yells back, someone’s squealed “ _thank you!_ ” making it over the din. Bitty applauds above his head.  
“And you deserve extra kudos tonight, because you’re having to share this room in this fantastic DIY venue – thank you to the Bird’s Nest, by the way, you guys are doing great work for the scene –” there’s an answering cheer, and Bitty claps his approval again. “Yeah, but the sad part is you’re having to share this room with the likes of my father, so apologies for that.”  
The crowd yells again, and Holster calls out “ _Bad Bob!_ ” from the drum kit. Ransom plays something on his bass that sounds like it could be the first few notes of ‘O Canada.’ Bitty may be imagining it, but he thinks he can hear Bob’s laughter above the chatter of the crowd.

“Jackaroo, can I ask you a question?”

Shitty’s leaning in to his mic, both hands draped over his guitar. He has, as Jack predicted, already stripped off his shirt. Bitty couldn’t say where he put it.

“I’d rather we keep playing, actually. Right, so this next song –”  
“Nah, fuck what you’d rather, you ‘bout to be _exposed_. The fact that Bob’s here – is that why you’ve yet to mention that Bitty’s shorts tonight look like he bought them in middle school?”  
There are some wolf-whistles from the audience, and Bitty covers his laugh – and undoubtedly his blush – with his hands.  
“I mean, I’m sorry Bits, I’m not out to get you brah, but – care to comment, Jacques?”  
“They look good.”  
“Oh, you think they look good?”  
“Yeah, they look good.”  
“They look _good_. Hear that, Bitty? They look good.”

Bitty removes his hands from his face to lean into his own mic and mutter, “Why, thank you Jack.” He doesn’t quite mean for it to come out as low and drawled as it does, but it makes Ransom bark a laugh and Jack turn a smirk on him. There is more whistling.

“Right,” Jack tries again, hint of laughter in his voice. “We are, unfortunately, Soft Hands, and this is our final song.”

 

* * *

 

 

It’s past midnight by the time they get everything loaded back into Bob’s truck after the gig. The other bands to play had been enjoyable, but Bitty had mostly hung around the back talking to Bob, both of them watching Jack throw Shitty, Ransom, and Holster around the pit that formed in front of the stage area. His smile was visible the entire time, even in the dim light of the room.

The band-plus-Bob huddled on the sidewalk in the cold night air, Jack clears his throat.  
“Dad, you drive these guys back to the Haus. Bittle and I’ll walk.”  
“Oh we will, will we?” Bitty had put his jeans back on over his PE shorts directly after their set, and of course had his coat and gloves, but things always seemed so much chillier in the dark.  
“It’s a fifteen-minute walk, Bittle. You’ll survive.” While he says it, though, he reaches out an arm and wraps it around Bitty’s shoulders. Bitty can’t help burrowing into his side. His eyes flick to Bob, catching him in watching them with a considered expression.

“Aright, get in the fuckin’ truck; my balls are retreating in to my body.” Shitty nudges the other two towards the rear door, claiming the passenger seat for himself.  
“There’s room for one more, Eric, if you want to make this grump walk by himself.” Lardo had left earlier in the night after she’d sold out of t-shirts, begging some art student party as excuse. Their number only five, there was indeed space in the back of Bob’s truck.  
Bitty sighs in a put-upon way. “I don’t know if we can trust him to make it back in one piece, Mr Zimmermann. I’d better see that he doesn’t get distracted and wander into some other live music venue on the way.”  
Bob chuckles again lowly.

“ _À demain?_ ” He directs this at Jack, to which he gets a “ _ouais_ ” in reply. He pats Jack’s shoulder on the way past, and hoists himself into his truck. Bitty hears Shitty start to say, “Bob, my man,” before the door shuts. They’ve driven off within seconds.

“C’mon,” Jack mutters, re-adjusting his arm and tugging Bitty along down the path. Bitty wrangles his phone from his pocket and thumbs open a waiting text from his mother, counting on Jack’s guiding hold on him to keep him out of potential sidewalk dangers.

“My mama hopes we enjoyed the cobbler.”  
“It was great. I only had maybe one mouthful, but it was great.”  
“Those boys, I swear. Table manners of a buncha vultures.”

He taps out a reply – _they all loved it!_ – and exhales long and low as he sends it through.  
“So maybe you didn’t get to eat too many of your feelings,” Jack starts, voice a little hoarse in the way it always is after a show, “but at least you did get to sing, for whatever it was worth.”  
“Worth a whole lot, actually.”  
“Yeah? It helped?”  
“Helped me feel something different. Something I wanted to feel, instead of something I was being made to feel.”  
Jack hums and presses a kiss to Bitty’s temple. “I know what you mean. Playing with you makes me feel that way too.”

Bitty stops, forcing Jack to stop as well, and twists around to push a kiss into Jack’s jawline.  
“Let’s get back quickly,” he says. “I want you to follow through on the third part of your plan to make me feel better.”  
Jack frowns at him momentarily, before a flicker of recognition passes through his eyes.

They all but run back to the Haus, both huffing a little, breaths giggly and strained as they race up the stairs to Jack’s room. Bitty doesn’t even try to resist when Jack pushes him back onto the bed, just latches on to Jack’s wrist as he falls and pulls him down too.

Jack may not kiss _every_ inch of Bitty’s body, but he does draw searing lips over a good portion of his neck and torso. He also leaves Bitty’s mouth feeling swollen. It’s the first time, really, that all of Bitty had been telling him that if Jack were to keep going, to keep doing whatever he wanted, there’d be no problem at all.

In a way, Bitty’s almost thankful when Jack works his way from Bitty’s hipbone to his cheek, and whispers in his ear, “We should get some sleep.”

Jack’s asleep before he is, having wrapped his arms around Bitty’s chest and nuzzled into his neck. Bitty can feel the warmth of his bare skin, and draws his fingertips idly over Jack’s spine, where he knows a mountain scene spreads across the expanse of Jack’s shoulders. Jack had told him it was supposed to be Mont Tremblant, about two hour’s drive from Montréal. He’d been up there as a child, with his parents.

Bitty looks down into the part of Jack’s face that he can see, the fan of Jack’s dark eyelashes, the ever-so-slight crook in Jack’s nose, the stubble on Jack’s jaw. He thinks about the feeling of the Georgia sun on his bare arms, and how wide the spread of North America is, and how six months is barely no time at all. He looks at Jack’s arm wrapped around his own ribs, his boyfriend’s illustrated skin against his own, blemish-free.

He remembers his mother saying _we just want to make sure you don’t forget where you’ve come from_.

Bitty doesn’t sleep.

 


	11. kiss the misfits, dance with the punks

 

It’s earlier than Bitty would normally consider getting up when Jack’s alarm goes off, but seeing as Bitty had never dozed off in the first place, it comes as more relief than irritation. Unknowing of Bitty’s situation, Jack is careful as he leans over Bitty to reach his phone on the nightstand, and looks apologetic when he looks to Bitty’s face and finds him looking back.

“I’m meeting my dad for breakfast. I was going to leave you a note.”

“A note?” Bitty arches an eyebrow. “What, like ‘ _Last night was fun, lock the door behind yourself’_?”  
Jack huffs, a noise that could be a laugh, and readjusts himself to lean heavily on his elbow. He looks down at Bitty, his own expression wild, a tinge of one of his wry smiles around his mouth. “No, more like ‘ _There’s coffee downstairs. I’ll be back in time for morning sex.’_ ” Jack’s brain clearly catches up with his mouth a moment too late, leaving a distinct gap between the words being put out there and the tumbling apology. Eyebrows near flown into his hairline, he scrambles over his words. “I didn’t mean – uh, I mean I know we’re not… which isn’t because I don’t _want_ to, we just – _I like what we do_ , it’s fine. More than fine. I love it. I was just – fuck.” He looks up to the ceiling, like it might provide him a ladder with which to climb out of the hole he’s dug himself. Bitty bites back on a smile, torn between embarrassment and amusement. Jack looks back to him deliberately, a steely and determined shadow in his eyes. “You said you’re not ready.”

“I did say that,” Bitty agrees.

He doesn’t elaborate, and he and Jack look at each other for a syrupy-slow moment. Jack opens his mouth, and Bitty can hear the soft sound of it, keeps watching as Jack licks his lips and presses them together. He seems to decide against whatever he was going to say, settling for nodding firmly. He does, however, reach out to draw his fingertips over Bitty’s exposed shoulder.

“Do you want to come to breakfast?”

Breakfast with Jack’s dad. The three of them, alone together. No band, no buffer. This is decidedly more of a step than simply _meeting_ Bob. That was passing jokes and casual hand-shaking. This could potentially be ‘ _So, Eric, what are your intentions with my boy?_ ’ This could be ‘ _What are your plans for the future, Eric?_ ’

This could also be embarrassing stories from Jack’s childhood.

Bitty is _sure_ there’s a sulky emo-bangs phase. He wants verbal confirmation, if not photographic proof.

Still. He hasn’t slept, and there’s a reason for that. There’s now this feeling of something suspended between them, all the things that Bitty doesn’t quite know how to suitably articulate, and the things that Jack isn’t going to push him on. And contrary to everything his mother ever said about sleeping off a bad mood, his reasons for being uncertain yesterday still stand.

Bitty needs some space.

He wrinkles his nose at Jack, trying for joking and apologetic. “ _Someone_ interrupted my beauty sleep. It’s really much too early for a weekend, honey. I don’t know if I’d be all too much fun.”  
“Okay,” Jack says simply, easily, and it almost makes Bitty want to eat his words and come along anyway. Jack leans over and presses a kiss to Bitty’s cheekbone, pulling back to smile briefly before extricating himself entirely from the blankets and clambering out of bed.

He stands, and stretches, and Bitty watches the shift of his tattoos over the muscles beneath. The diamond-framed mountain scene spreads across his shoulders, everything below it laid out with symmetry on either side of Jack’s spine: flower, flower; sword hilt, sword tip. A snake coils in the broad expanse of the middle. In the lines, the boldness and blackness, Bitty can see that raw part of Jack. The part that simmers with the anger he puts into his music. The part that made Bitty think that Jack could never return his feelings.

He flops onto his back as Jack closes the bathroom door behind himself.

There are things that Bitty is sure of. The first of these is that Jack _does_ want to be with him. He’d have to be completely dense to think otherwise. He’s got the physical proof of it, in not only a mix CD, but an original song, _written by Jack himself_. More than that, he’s got the proof in all the touches, the conversations, the many, many ways in which Jack gives him time and attention.

Bitty hears the shower turn on in the bathroom, and figures he can at least be productive, rather than wallowing in his own confusion. He disentangles himself from the blankets, feeling no qualms about rooting around in Jack’s closet for some clothes. He settles on some drawstring sweatpants which he chooses to roll up to his knees, and Jack’s sweatshirt from the previous day. He pulls the sleeves down over his hands. Everything’s fleecy, and carries the fresh-but-spicy smell of Jack.

He casts a quick glance around the room should Hab have retreated from the bathroom before Jack took to the shower, but the cat is nowhere to be seen – which. Honestly, it’s something to chirp Jack for later. Bitty distantly hopes that the cat had trailed through to Shitty’s room. It seems less weird than the alternative.

He intends to go downstairs to make breakfast, but shutting Jack’s door behind himself, he hears the distinct strain of music coming from Lardo’s room across the hall.

They haven’t had a heart-to-heart in a while.

He knocks quietly, but her “come in” yell is anything but. He finds her sitting on her bed, music playing from her laptop, duvet turning her into more pile of blankets than girl. She’s scrolling through her phone, but looks up with a grin when Bitty enters.

“Hiya.”  
“Hey.” Bitty shuffles awkwardly for a moment, tugging at his too-long sleeves. Quick enough though, Lardo’s expectant grin smooths over any uncertainty. He goes to sit in the center of the rug on her floor, legs crossed and hands tumbled in his lap.

“How was your art thing?”  
“Good. It was like, a gallery space in a disused shop? The entire thing was an installation, and they were filming it all from cameras in the roof so like, we all became part of the art. They had a DJ, so people were dancing and stuff. I got a girl’s number. It was good.”  
Bitty hums, smiling at her. “Sounds cool. You didn’t miss much, anyway. The other bands were good, and the boys were goin’ crazy. I just talked to Bob most of the time.”  
She gives him a grin that verges on a leer. “Oh, yeah? Trying to get in good with the in-laws, huh?”  
Bitty manages an eye-roll despite the heat rushing to his face. “ _Yeah_ , I’m fixin’ to butter him up so he can put in a word for me.”

They snicker at each other for a moment, the only real sound in the room the band singing _did you clear the air yet?_ in the background.

“You know,” Lardo starts, tone her usual matter-of-fact drawl, so deliberate that Bitty is sure there’s no real agenda in her words, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him like this before.”  
“Bob? Well, there certainly were more dad jokes than I was expecting.” Bitty smirks at her, but the unrelenting expression on her face tells him there’s no point joking any more. He sighs. “Can this be one of those conversations where we talk about something without actually talking about it?”  
“Ah, the double-blind. Proceed.”  
Bitty stretches out his arms and watches as his fingers protrude from the sleeves of the sweatshirt. He pulls them down again, and tucks them into his palms to make little sock-puppet-like characters.  
“Sometimes, you just wonder when the novelty of something will wear off.”

When he looks back to Lardo, she’s frowning at him.  
“Um,” she says, but doesn’t continue. She nods slowly, and Bitty takes it as a cue to go on.

“It’s like… say, for example, there’s a tried-and-tested pecan pie recipe. It’s rich, it’s got dark chocolate in it, it’s sophisticated and does really well. There’s a lot of appeal for this recipe. _But_ , then you try the recipe with salted caramel as well, and it’s _delicious_. Like, absolutely glorious. The flavors go amazingly together. Although.” He sucks in a breath, and looks down into his lap, still fidgeting with the sleeves. At this rate, he’ll put a hole into one of them. “The thing is, the pie was fine without the caramel in the first place. And you can have the pie without the caramel; you can’t have the caramel without the pie. What does the caramel even do for the pie, really? If it was good enough to start with, then adding the caramel just seems like too much. It’s a novelty.”

Lardo doesn’t say anything for a moment, but when she does speak, her words are clipped and careful. “Plenty of people like salted caramel by itself.”

Bitty _tsks_ , shaking his head. “It’s a nice flavor, sure, but you can’t eat it by itself. And you _especially_ can’t have too much of it.”  
“I’d eat a whole fucking pot of salted caramel by myself.”  
Bitty turns a small smile on her, aware that he’s getting a little watery. “You’d just get sick, girl.”

Her mouth opens and closes a few times, frown now clearly pronounced between her brows. She’s aggressive when she finally gets her words working, angry in a way Bitty’s never seen her.  
“Jack doesn’t make people _sick_.”

Bitty gapes at her. One of the tears in his eyes dribbles free; he swipes at it angrily with one floppy cuff.  
“Jack’s not the salted caramel. Jack’s the pie.”

The anger crumples from Lardo’s face, dissolving into something that almost looks like grief.  
“ _Bits_ ,” she says, and slides off her bed, blankets and all, to sit in front of him on the floor. Their mirrored crossed knees touch, but she doesn’t make any other move to reach out to him. “I meant it; I’ve never seen him like this before. He can be dense as a fucking cinderblock sometimes, but for all everyone jokes about it, he’s not out of touch with himself. I mean, you know that. You do.”  
Bitty nods miserably, thinking of all the careful measures Jack takes to stay aware of his emotions, to keep his moods in check. He thinks of all the times Jack has specifically reached out to him, wanting to clear any misunderstandings. He sighs, and it sounds wet.

“And you’re _not_ salted caramel. And Jack’s not a pecan pie. If anything, _you’re_ a pecan and he’s maple syrup. No one’s a pie.” She jostles one of her knees, knocking into his deliberately, and though she’s smiling at him again, there’s still a furrow of worry in her forehead. “Come on,” she says. “I splurged and bought an avocado yesterday. I was hiding it behind the mysterious jar of brown stuff in the fridge, but I’ll make us each an egg and we can have it with toast.”  
“I don’t know if I want to eat anything that’s been in proximity to that jar.”

All the same, for once it’s Bitty who sits on the kitchen bench and watches Lardo preparing breakfast, using Holster’s beer stein as a coffee mug. She blasts music from her phone, and between mashing the avocado with a fork and dropping eggs into a swirling pot of water, she mouths the lyrics at Bitty with waggling eyebrows and suggestive hip twitches. When Jack emerges from upstairs, hair damp and smelling of a woody aftershave, he says “Forming a caffeine dependency, are we?” and presses a minty kiss to Bitty’s mouth before disappearing out the door. Bitty rolls the sleeves of the sweatshirt over his hands, and feels the warm ceramic between his palms.

 

* * *

 

 

Bitty keeps the sweatshirt on. He keeps it on even as he changes back into his jeans. He keeps it on under his coat as he walks back to his dorm. He wears it to and from the shower room, even though he changes his shirt from the gig to a t-shirt that he tucks into his jeans. He puts on a pair of beat-up sneakers, and stands in front of the mirror stuck inside the door of his closet, fussing over the sweatshirt sleeves again.

“Should I roll these up?”

Dex turns a bewildered look on him from where he’s lounging on his bed, running a highlighter over a textbook.  
“Uh,” he says inelegantly, usual censuring expression fixing itself onto his face. “They’re really long.”  
“I know.” Bitty experiments by turning one cuff up, but it already looks a bit silly. Too neat. “What would you do?”  
“I don’t know.”  
Bitty sighs, exaggerating his eye-roll with a roll of his shoulder, turning to face Dex with a hand on his hip. “Seriously, Dex? It’s not going to make you gay to say one thing about a piece of clothing.” He isn’t quite sure what makes him say it, really. He definitely wasn’t intending for it to bite that much. Still, he holds his ground.

Dex’s slightly open mouth and apparent loss for words are vaguely satisfying.  
“Just, uh. Push them up to your elbows,” he finally concedes.  
Bitty nods, turning back to the mirror to follow his instructions and observe the result. He doesn’t look like a kid in hand-me-downs any more, which helps. The size of the sweater seems intentional. With his jeans and sneakers, the overall effect is… casual. A little edgy, if he’s being honest. The pocket-positioned logo, _AJJ_ written in a spindly hand-drawn font, only helps this. It’s altogether not unlike things he’s seen people wearing at basement shows. He turns back to Dex, and holds his arms out by his sides for appraisal.  
“Okay?”  
Dex sweeps a look over him, and nods. “Yeah. It’s fine.”  
“Can I borrow your backpack?”  
Dex blinks. “Uh.”  
“Shit, I’m sorry Dex, that was mighty rude of me. My satchel’s just a little awkward for what I’m doin’ today, and I don’t have anything better.” It’s a lie, but only sort of. He wants Dex’s backpack because it’s burgundy and beaten up and has a few band patches stuck to it.  
Dex peers at him, clearly battling internally between suspicion and confusion, before he nods his chin towards his desk chair and his backpack hanging by the straps off of it. “You can just, ah, put everything on the chair, I guess.”

Bitty does so, and replaces the contents with his own belongings. With the backpack on, he stands in front of the mirror one last time.

He throws a “thanks, Dex, I owe you one” over his shoulder as he leaves.

 

* * *

 

 

Bitty doesn’t have to share a seat on the train to Boston – barely anyone is going to the city from Samwell, seeing as it’s Sunday and there are classes tomorrow. He plugs in his earphones and queues up one of the playlists he’s made, some favorites from the dozens and dozens of bands Jack has shown him in the past months. He uses the time to Google.

He finds an Instagram filled with black and bold illustrations, and a link to a website, and a notice that says _Walk-Ins Welcome_.

When he gets to Jamaica Plain, he’s tempted to send Shitty a snapchat with the geofilter, just because he knows it would get an excited response. He resists, but just barely. Headphones still lodged in, Bitty walks with his hands clamped around the straps of Dex’s backpack, trying to ignore the slight dampness of his palms.

He wipes them on his jeans. It doesn’t help.

The tattoo shop has a small front, inconspicuously wedged between an optometrist’s and a kebab shop. Bitty can see inside, despite the decals on the windows – can see the framed illustrations on the walls, the chesterfield covering on the reception desk, the opening to a set of stairs which probably lead down to where the work is done. The guy at the desk is wearing a backwards cap and a plain navy t-shirt, exposing forearms dotted over with an arrangement of tattoos not unlike Jack’s, although not as extensive. Maybe the same coverage is in the guy’s future, though. Poring over a notebook of some kind, he doesn’t look up. Thankfully so, because Bitty spends an excessive amount of time watching him.

Aside from an apparent shared taste in tattoos, this guy looks nothing like Jack. His hair’s too light, and he’s obviously shorter, and he’s all skinny in a stretched kind of way. Aside from the tattoos, there is nothing to suggest that he and Jack would have anything in common, no band iconography or hockey paraphernalia on his person in any way.

Bitty thinks about Ransom and his nose ring, the fishnet shirt he sometimes wears. He thinks about Holster and the Adidas sliders he wears not only in the Haus, but to class as well. With socks. He thinks about Shitty’s ratty jeans and t-shirts, about the American flag jean vest he’d worn at a show once, about his riotous array of boxers. He thinks about Lardo and her crop tops, her high-waisted shorts, her chambray shirts and leggings. He thinks about Nursey and their pastel singlets, Dex and his flannels, Chow and his pop-punk t-shirts.

Bitty thinks about Jack.

He drops Dex’s backpack to the ground, and wrestles out of Jack’s sweatshirt, despite it being well under sixty degrees. He ties the sweatshirt around his waist, hoists the backpack onto his shoulders again, and turns to stride back down the street.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s Jack who answers the door at the Haus when Bitty knocks.

His face falls into an easy grin, his “hey” coming out lazy and bright. He leans down to press a smacking kiss to Bitty’s lips, humming into it briefly before he pulls away.  
“Did your dad get off okay?”  
“Yeah. He hit the road straight after breakfast. It’s a fair drive.” He gestures Bitty inside with a light touch to his shoulder, shutting the door behind him once he’s over the threshold. “I was just gonna grab an apple; you want one?”

Bitty watches as Jack takes two apples from the fridge, and accepts his wordlessly. He trails after Jack up the stairs, and doesn’t question it when Jack continues through his room and ducks out the window. Bitty joins him on the roof. He hasn’t put down Dex’s backpack yet, and his arms are prickling over with goosebumps with only a t-shirt on, but he finds he doesn’t really care.

He takes a bite of the apple. It’s sweet, and a little too cold from the fridge, and he likes the sharp bite of sourness at the end.

“What did you get up to today?”  
“I went to Boston.”  
“Oh yeah?” Jack doesn’t sound surprised, or concerned, just interested. He watches Bitty over the top of his own apple as he takes a bite, the attentiveness nothing unusual, but so complete that it sinks right to Bitty’s core.  
“Yeah. I was going to get a tattoo.”  
Jack lowers his apple, raises his eyebrows, and licks an errant squirt of juice from the side of his mouth. “Yeah?”  
“I didn’t, just to clarify. But I went all the way there, and I stood outside the tattoo shop, and I just had this like… It was kind of like, a settling feeling? Like an, ‘oh, you’re an idiot’ moment. Dramatic realization.”  
“You’re not an idiot,” Jack supplies loyally, but there’s a mild hint of confusion in his voice.  
“It was going to be like the big _Grease_ moment. ‘ _Tell me about it, stud.’_ ”  
Jack laughs softly, but doesn’t make any move to interrupt. Bitty takes another bite.

“I need you to know that like, now, I know all this is irrational. You don’t have to talk me down from it; I’ve already done that myself.”  
Jack nods firmly, and repositions himself so he’s sideways on the roof, facing Bitty despite the weird slant it puts him on.  
“I thought you were going to get sick of me, because I’m not hardcore and I’m not punk and I don’t look… edgy. I kept gettin’ in my head about how, well, ‘oh I’m so different from him so it can’t last anyway.’”

Jack’s clearly fighting back on butting in, his mouth a thin line and his eyebrows low over his eyes. He shrugs his shoulder up to his ear, just once, an uncomfortable movement, but he doesn’t say anything. Bitty’s grateful, and takes pity on him: he reaches out and clasps his hand over Jack’s folded knee, pushing his thumb into the joint slightly.

“And see, that’s why I’m being stupid. Because you’ve told me, in about a million different ways, that it doesn’t matter. None of it fucking matters. You don’t _want_ me to change for you.”  
“I definitely don’t.”  
“Good. Because I don’t want to change either.” He smiles at Jack, feeling it spread warm and syrup-thick across his face, and watches as Jack’s own smile does the same. “At least, I don’t want to force myself to change. I might get a tattoo, but not today. Probably not soon. And when I do, I’ll ask for your help. Not because I want you to approve of it, or like me better because of it, but because I value your opinion.”  
Jack nods, still smiling, and lays his hand over Bitty’s on his own knee. “Thanks. I’d love to help you, Bits.”  
Bitty flips his hand over, messily tangling his and Jack’s fingers together.

“I think I’ve been relying on you too much,” Bitty admits, “to tell me how you’re feeling, and not giving you anything in return.”  
Jack shakes his head. “That’s not true. I know, Bits.” He squeezes Bitty’s hand. “I know.”  
Bitty slowly lets out a breath, and tries his best to keep eye contact. The urge to look down at his lap, or at their joined hands, or out at the front yard, is fierce.

“I’ve been scared,” he says finally. “That once you graduate, it’ll be hard. You could be _anywhere_.”  
“I don’t know about that.”  
“You could. And I don’t want you to disregard any offer for a silly reason like… I don’t want to sacrifice your plans for me.”  
“Bits that’s just…” Jack clicks his tongue, and tosses his apple into the yard. Bitty raises his eyebrows at him, but then Jack brings his other hand to hold Bitty’s between both of his own. “I don’t know where I’ll end up, you’re right. But that seems like a problem for future Jack and Bitty to deal with. I know what you’re scared of, I get it, and I promise I’m not going to plan my life around you. I won’t put that pressure on you.” Jack’s brow furrows slightly, and he scrapes his teeth across his bottom lip, just once. “I do want to plan my life _with_ you, though.”

Bitty stares at him.  
“Jack Zimmermann, we have been dating for a _month_.”  
Jack snorts a laugh. “I know, Bittle. I know I do make plans; I like to know generally where I’m going. But plans change.” He pauses, smiling at Bitty significantly. “I’m just saying, that if it comes to it, I want to give this – _us_ , the best chance possible. I’m not talking about rash decisions, I’m just talking about… figuring how to make this work, I guess. And I want this to work, Bits. I really, really want this to work.”  
“Really, really? My, such the poet.”  
“Hey. I wrote you a song, didn’t I?”  
Bitty arches an eyebrow and takes a pointed bite of his apple. “I’ve been meaning to say, actually. I just don’t think we can do that song at a show, sweetheart.”  
“Oh, really? Don’t think it’s show-worthy?” Jack’s smirking infinitesimally, watching Bitty with a glint in his eye.  
“Hmm, no. And it’s not only the fact that it’s gloriously emotional and truly sappy – I honestly don’t think any of the boys would let us survive after that line about _our bodies going in time_.” Bitty takes another bite.  
“Too private, eh?” Jack’s leaning in already, obviously anticipating where Bitty is headed. Still, Bitty indulges himself.  
“Actually, I just think it’s sloppy writing. I’m definitely not sure what you mean, so I doubt they would be.”  
“Yeah, might be a bit vague.”  
“I think you need to clear it up for me. What you meant.”  
“Of course. Well, Bittle, I’m going to need you to climb back through that window then.”

Bitty feigns surprise. “Oh? You can’t show me out here?”  
“I don’t share my creative process with anyone, Bittle. You know that.”  
“Well, if it’s in the name of creativity.”

Bitty throws his apple in to the yard, and crawls back in to Jack’s room.

 

* * *

 

 

Winter break comes too soon.

Soft Hands don’t play any more shows in the slim window between family weekend and the term break, but Jack takes Bitty to other bands. They stand together in dark basements, softly-lit back rooms, on one patio under the stars. Jack doesn’t go in the pit, choosing to stand with Bitty in the back – sometimes just next to each other with their arms lightly touching, sometimes wrapped around Bitty from behind.

They otherwise keep up their routine – keyboard practice, running, band breakfasts. They sometimes meet for lunch between classes. Increasingly, though, they spend time in Jack’s room, in Jack’s bed, with only their boxers in place.

Bitty thinks, maybe, he’s learned every single one of Jack’s tattoos – mapped them, with his fingers, and most with his tongue.

They’re still going slow with it, a combination of Jack not pushing and Bitty not talking, and even when things start to head _somewhere_ and Bitty _could_ ask for more, either he pulls away or Jack does and then he just doesn’t know what to say.

Before he can get there, though, he’s kissing Jack goodbye at the airport as they each board planes home to their families.  
“I’ll send you photos of the sufganiyot,” Jack tells Bitty.  
“I’ll give you a running commentary of the inevitable cranberry sauce war,” Bitty tells him back.

When he looks over his shoulder while walking to his gate, he finds Jack looking back at him.

Bitty wonders, idly, whose family they will go to next year. The thought almost makes him stop in his tracks.

 

* * *

 

 

Georgia is paper cuts on recipe pages, hands occupied by spoons and knives and dough, and eating pickles between taste-tests. It’s beating his mama down to the car for emergency grocery trips, and nattering with strangers in the baking aisle, and holding conversations with Jack in three separate messaging platforms. It’s idly and unhopefully searching for punk shows in Atlanta, and finding whole _festivals_ filled with bands that Jack has shown him, and sending links to Jack with reams of exclamation points.

It’s talking about summers off and going to gigs in different cities and _we should_ …

Bitty’s mama asks after Jack once, and Bitty says “he’s doin’ real good,” and that’s all there is to it.

Christmas dinner is a blur of dishes that Bitty documents meticulously in snapchats and pictures that get sent to the band and to Jack. That night, Bitty falls asleep with his phone tucked against his ear, listening to Jack mull over whether he should try and bring a particular amp back from Montréal. When he wakes a few hours later, streetlights casting his room in an orange glow, there’s a text message that reads, _I can tell you’re asleep cause you’re making those little noises. Sleep tight, Bits_.

It all comes to a head on New Year’s Eve, when it’s hours past midnight and Bitty had maybe one or two glasses of champagne punch after Jack sent him a midnight text that read _Happy New Year. Thinking of you_. and Bitty realized what they _could_ be doing if they weren’t a thousand miles from each other.

There are no family left at their house, just his parents as they all sit around in the early hours of January first and pick at leftover finger food and drinks. It’s easy for Bitty to excuse himself, to beg his afternoon flight the next day as a reason.

Once in his room, he tries not to think as he strips his shirt off and lays on his bed. He opens snapchat, and hold his phone over himself, angling to get most of his bare torso into the shot. He’s trying to figure out what to do with his arm, settling for throwing it carelessly over his head, when he looks to the screen and sees his lip caught between his teeth.

It’s good. He snaps the picture.

Within minutes a notification comes through that Jack has screenshotted the image. In another few, there’s a second notification.

Jack has photographed himself lounging against his headboard, casual and careless. His expression is almost cocky, an eyebrow minutely quirked and a smirk on his mouth. His eyes are lidded, and look dark in the dim light. He’s also shirtless, arranged in a way that draws attention to his developed abdominals, to the ink across his skin. However, where both Bitty’s hands had been accounted for in frame, the one not holding the camera disappears below the shot. The implication is clear.

Bitty screenshots it before he can second-guess himself.

Secure in the fact he started it, and Jack responded, Bitty has no issue following Jack’s lead and shoving his own hand down his shorts. He does it with Jack’s picture in his hand, and, not for the first time, Jack’s name on his lips.

It’s four a.m. on New Year’s Day, and Bitty lies in his childhood bed with his phone screen lit up, searching the words _how long to wait before you say I love you._

 


	12. your heart is a muscle the size of your fist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are: the end of an ~~era~~ album. It's always that final song that makes it, eh? Here's hoping this one does the trick.
> 
> I can't thank everyone enough for the relentless support, the kind and thoughtful comments, and the gorgeous fanworks that have come out of this AU. What began as something entirely self-serving has turned into something I'm proud to say other people _enjoy_ \- it's more than I could ever ask for.
> 
> Although there are maybe things I would like to change about this story, because hindsight is 20/20 and chronology is a bitch, I can categorically say i am proud of what's here. I stand by it. If it means for you half of what it means for me, that will be enough.
> 
> The playlists - all 12 of them - can be found on [my public Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/user/whyfrenchfry), in their intended-and-chronological order. I hope you enjoy them!

 

Knowing Jack’s flight doesn’t get in to Boston until later in the afternoon, Bitty still goes straight from the Samwell shuttle stop to the Haus.

He dithers on the doorstep, debating whether to knock, or just use the spare key he now knows is nailed to the tree in the front yard. He’d have to climb a little to get to it, but the exertion seems worth it if he can sneak in to Jack’s room without alerting Shitty – or, god forbid, Ransom or Holster. It’s a moment before he remembers that none of this is actually an issue; they’re all home for the holidays.

Bitty climbs the tree, gets the key, and lets himself in.

The Haus has the settled feeling of emptiness, slight musk in the air due to being vacant and undisturbed for a few days.

He knows, unfortunately, that the cupboards are too bare to even consider baking anything. Bitty may be near magic with an oven, but there’s only so much he can do without flour. He bypasses the kitchen entirely and just hefts his duffle upstairs, letting himself into Jack’s room without hesitation. Hab, he knows, was with Jack in Montréal. Bitty didn’t quite want to fathom what that animal might be like on a plane.

There’s nothing that can make him focus enough to do anything productive, despite the readings he knows he has to do for class and the homework quiz he knows he has to submit. He ends up crouched in front of Jack’s bookcase, flicking through the records. He plays a few, second-hand and properly vintage, tucking his knees to his chest as he listens to the crackle across the speakers, the sound coming through dusty with age. He listens to new albums too, ones that sound like he’s hearing them over amps in a basement if he closes his eyes.

There’s suspension in what Bitty’s feeling, like him being here alone isn’t quite real – like he won’t quite start to exist again until Jack arrives.

He hears the front door bang open, and a set of feet clamber up the stairs, but it’s hours too early to be Jack. He turns the volume on the music down, making it a low murmur that only he can hear. His secret moment stays that way.

Bitty hears Shitty dump bags in his room before crashing back down the stairs. It’s another few moments before the sounds of the television in the living room drift up through the floorboards.

With the music turned just loud enough to flatten over the muffled yelling in whatever Shitty is watching, Bitty lays atop the covers on Jack’s bed, and digs his fingers into the cotton. With his head lolling to the side, face gently pressed to Jack’s pillow, he can smell Jack’s soap. Jack’s shampoo.

He breathes deeply.

Bitty has to get up three times to change over the album, but resumes the same position. He’s listening to something more mellow, wistful and soft, stretching his arms up to the ceiling and looking at the tendons in his own fingers, when the door downstairs bangs open a second time.

He hears Shitty’s yell of greeting, and a garbled reply followed by frantic stomping on the stairs. Jack’s voice gains clarity as he nears the door, “ _I can’t, Shits, I’m just dumping my stuff and then I have to_ –”

He cuts himself off as he forces his own bedroom door open, eyes landing on Bitty, now sitting up on Jack’s own bed. Jack’s face goes through a startlingly rapid shift in expressions: his eyebrows raise; then a grin flits across his mouth; then it smooths into a soft settling of his lips. His eyes darken.

Jack closes the door behind himself, leans against it, and says, “Bittle. You’re here.”

Sitting on the bed, hands dropped uselessly between his bent legs, Bitty makes a movement something in the approximation of a shrug.  
“I knew Dex would be back already, and I figured…” He drops his eyes to his hands, fidgeting in the bedspread. He shakes his head. “I don’t know what I figured.” Bitty meets Jack’s eyes again. “I was lookin’ at that picture of you the whole flight to Boston.”

Bitty can hear the confidence, the surety in his own voice. He can’t help the heat that floods to his cheeks.

Jack drops his bag to the floor.

He’s across the room in three strides, and slotting himself between Bitty’s thighs to push him back into the mattress in a fluid movement that Bitty can’t help surging up in to.

Bitty locks his ankles at the small of Jack’s back, feeling their hips jar against each other. He rolls against it; Jack lets out a grunt and breathes a hot kiss into Bitty’s jaw.  
“I jerked off like three times last night, looking at you.” His voice is slurred together, words coming thick and low, accent coating every vowel.  
“I did too, once, but then I wanted to wait.”

The admission is met by another guttural sound from Jack, who adjusts his pelvis against Bitty’s and starts to grind against him in measured deep throbs of movements. Gripping into Jack’s hair, Bitty forces their mouths together. With their suddenly-harsh breaths, and Bitty’s attention being torn between the feeling of Jack against him and what to do with his lips, it’s a kiss lacking both finesse and tenderness. It doesn’t matter so much. They continue like that over moments, mouths sloppy as they press against each other, until Jack veritably groans and pulls back to look Bitty in the eye.

“If we keep this up, I’m going to – I don’t know if I want it to be like this, in our pants like a couple of teenagers.”  
Even as Bitty nods, he fists his hands in the shoulders of Jack’s shirt.

As Jack draws away, coaxing Bitty back to sitting up, he lays kisses on his cheeks, his forehead, his nose. He trails fingers down Bitty’s neck. He rubs his hand down Bitty’s chest.

It’s when Jack is nosing along Bitty’s jaw, grazing his lips over the line and murmuring unintelligible nothings into Bitty’s skin, one hand pawing along Bitty’s thigh, that Bitty says, “I feel kind of uncoordinated. I don’t know what I’m doing.”  
“What do you want?” It’s directed into the hollow behind Bitty’s ear, but it’s loud enough to make out.

When Bitty comes, it’s with Jack’s mouth on him, one of Jack’s hands stroking at his hipbone, the other gripping Bitty’s own. He comes breathing Jack’s name, head straining back on Jack’s pillow. It’s a bare thing he doesn’t say anything else.

 

* * *

 

 

Nadya’s office is shared with three other instructors, and Bitty always feels like his voice falls dull off the walls inside. There is no echo, no reverb, no acoustics to speak of. It seems ironic.

He’d almost make a joke out of it, if Nadya weren’t observing him with such narrow eyes.

“I never took you for a quitter, Eric,” is what she says.  
It should sting; she clearly intends it to. Bitty just shrugs. He tries to keep his tone mild, bites down on the begging voice that rears itself in the back of his brain. “I don’t really think that’s what I’m doing, but I’m sorry you feel that way.”  
“You’re halfway through the year; you could easily stick it out.”  
“I already have the credit.” He’s said the words what feels like a million times in the lead-up to this meeting, inflection varying from defensive to self-assuring to aggressive. Each time, Jack had responded with a calm, “Yes, you do.” Despite being a repetitive platitude, it had helped. Now, without Jack there, Bitty grips at the fabric of his jeans to bolster himself. He ploughs on. “I only took orchestra again this semester because the option was there, and it seemed logical. I truthfully didn’t even consider the other performance credit options.” He takes a deep breath through his nose, aware that he’s starting to feel scripted, but continues regardless. This is what he and Jack figured out together, what they’d practiced, and he needs to get through it. “I’m limiting myself within my major if I don’t take this opportunity to explore other genres. It’s a gap in my education and I’m at college to fill those gaps. And besides,” he allows himself a wry smile, one that Nadya raises an eyebrow at, “I think we both know my heart isn’t in it any more.”

She observes him silently and unblinkingly, a coldly blank expression that Bitty does his best to meet with a level gaze. Finally, she clears her throat.

“I was truthfully quite close to asking you to step down. Your playing has not been up to standard of late, and you’re spending more time turning pages than on the bench.” Bitty can’t help the snort he emits; it’s so unsurprising it’s almost funny. “I felt badly about it, to tell the truth. You’re a good musician, Eric. Perhaps classical is not the right fit for you, though.”  
“Perhaps not. I’ll pick up a full performance credit next year. I can go this semester without one. I only need three for my major, and with orchestra last year... I could do a voice credit, maybe. Jazz band, perhaps.”  
Her answering smile is a flash of an expression, but it feels like enough.

“Whatever you do, Eric,” she begins gravely as she stands and extends her hand, “don’t waste those fingers in a rock band.”

Bitty shakes his head and her hand firmly. “Oh lord, I wouldn’t dream of it.”

 

* * *

 

 

Through spring, Bitty is at the Haus more than his own dorm. He doesn’t realize that it’s been _weeks_ that he hasn’t slept in his own bed until he stops by the room and Dex greets him with a thoroughly startled, “Hey!”

They stare at each other.  
“I’m just getting some clothes.” Bitty isn’t sure why it sounds like an excuse – why he feels the need to justify his presence in his own room. He’s been back before, for the same reason, but Dex hadn’t been there. Conceptually, though, this seems to evade Dex’s understanding. He frowns.

“Haven’t seen you in ages.”  
Bitty _tsk_ s, and goes to busy himself in his sock drawer. “That’s not true; we hung out at that gig a week ago. You bet Nursey they couldn’t balance a can of beer on their forehead for thirty seconds, and when it fell off it landed on your foot.”  
Dex doesn’t reply, and when Bitty glances over his shoulder, he finds he’s still being frowned at. He sighs.

“ _What_ , Dex? I’ve been sleeping at the Haus; what do you want from me? I didn’t think you’d _mind_ having the room to yourself.”  
“Bitty, that’s not what I mean, and you know it.”  
Bitty grunts and turns back to his closet. “Do I know that?”  
Dex is silent for long enough that the conversation might be over. Bitty goes about shoving underwear into his bag, trying to make a point by emptying the drawer completely. He’s adding sweatpants and a hoodie to the mix when Dex asks, “Why don’t you just move all your stuff there?”  
Bitty imagines the snark; that much is clear by the way Dex’s face crumples when Bitty whirls around to snap at him, throwing his bag to the ground. “What the fuck is _that_ supposed to mean?”

Getting a reaction from Dex that isn’t indignation or anger is so left-of-field that Bitty flounders a bit. He finds himself chewing on his lip and wrapping his arms around his middle, watching Dex stare resolutely at his own lap.  
“Dex, I’m sorry. That was –” He cuts off with a sigh. Dex coughs.

A few prickly moments pass, and Bitty stoops to pick up his bag again. He transfers a few folded shirts to it, trying to muffle the sounds of his movements.

“It came out wrong. Sorry. I just meant that, if you wanted to stay at the Haus to spend time with Jack before he graduates, that I’d get it. I wouldn’t be, like, offended or whatever. That you weren’t living here any more.”

Bitty pauses, pair of chinos clutched in his grip.  
“Oh.” He can’t think of anything else to say. Thankfully, it seems that now Dex has started, he doesn’t want to stop.  
“Like, I know it’s going to be hard for you when he’s gone and if you want to make the most of your time, that would make sense to me. I wouldn’t – like, I’d understand. So you don’t have to worry about what I think, or whatever. If you were.”  
He sounds gruff and stilted, thoroughly unsure. Bitty decides to spare him by not turning around.

“Thank you, Dex. I’m –” The apology hovers on the tip of his tongue, but Bitty holds it back; he’s not going to say sorry for his relationship. “We need to make more time to hang out,” is what he says instead. It’s better, in every way.

Dex hums in agreement, and it feel like a victory.

His voice is lighter, almost happy when Bitty zips up his bag and he asks, “What are you guys planning, by the way?”  
Bitty shrugs. “We’ve got practice, but I think we’re going out for dinner later. I want to try that new burrito place over on Market. I’ll let you know if it’s any good.”  
Dex offers a quick smile, then shakes his head minutely. “No, like – what are you doing when Jack graduates? With Soft Hands and everything?”

It sends something cold down Bitty’s spine, hearing it out loud. It’s the question he and Jack had been pointedly avoiding, the one that split their time together into two distinct halves: _before_ graduation, and _after_ graduation. The grin Bitty gives Dex in return is deliberate. He can feel it straining against his cheeks.

“We’re still trying to figure that out.”

It’s the truth, at least.

 

* * *

 

 

A text pings through with fifteen minutes left of Bitty’s Thursday afternoon History of Popular Music lecture. He scrambles to cover the noise, unsure of when he’d turned his phone from silent. When he sees the message itself, a surprising _I’m outside your class_ from Jack, his heartrate only skyrockets.

When the professor winds up a few minutes early, Bitty throws “excuse me”s and “I’m so sorry”s over his shoulder as he fights his way toward the exit.

Jack is, indeed, lounging against a pillar across from the doorway. Bitty stops a few feet from him, the realization that that Jack is whole and visibly unconcerned doing little to assuage his own panic.  
“Honey, what --?”

“Providence.”

It’s a non-sequitur. Bitty gapes at him.

“ _Providence_ ,” Jack says again, threading an unknown significance through the word and doing little to enlighten Bitty as to why it’s important.  
“Jack, sweetheart, I don’t –”  
“Providence, Rhode Island. Bitty, _Providence_. The Falconers. They’re going to take me on for placement as I do my Masters. Babe, fucking Providence – it’s a forty-five minute drive away.”

When Bitty says it, it comes out at a yell that turns several heads in their direction. “ _Providence!_ ”

Bitty slams himself into Jack so hard, he hears the startled _oof_ Jack makes in spite of his arms immediately flying up to catch Bitty. His feet aren’t touching the floor any more, but he feels Jack’s grip keeping him up and tightens his own hold around Jack’s neck. Through giggles, he sings the words _Florida’s a long way from Rhode Island_ in to Jack’s ear, and when Jack laughs and starts to push long kisses into his neck, he almost lets the _I love you_ in his mind tumble from his lips.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s a band practice on a clear day, one on which Bitty would truthfully rather be laying on a lawn somewhere and not in a basement that smells of feet, when Jack and Shitty arrive with somber looks on their faces.

That was warning enough, really – that Bitty, Holster, and Ransom were ready for practice before Jack had even arrived.

The pair stand surveying the band, both of them with their hands in their pockets, creating an almost eerie echo of each other.  
“Gents,” Shitty begins, and though Ransom and Holster had been messing around with some drum and bass tunes, they pull up immediately. “As you know, the time for your fearless leaders to depart draws near. As such –”

“Fearless _leader_ ,” Ransom interjects pointedly. “Jack’s undoubtedly in charge of this band, but you – what do you actually fucking do? For real, like I’m not even trying to be funny.”  
“First of all, fuck you.” Shitty raises his voice over Hoslter’s honking yells of laughter, and extends a sharp middle finger in their direction. “Second, that is the beauty of what I do; that I do it with such fucking precision and such a soft fucking touch that you won’t miss me ‘till I’m gone.”  
“Soft touch, eh?”  
“You bet that sweet ass of yours, Rans –”

“ _Anyway_.” Jack cuts across forcefully, the authority obvious in his tone. “We’re graduating, and we know it’s up to us to make a decision that’s in the band’s best interests. It’s been – it’s been a privilege to play with you guys, and I know both Shits and I can finish up this year knowing that we’ve put out some fucking high-quality punk. We haven’t pulled up short, or compromised on our DIY, and we can all be, like, real fucking proud of that.” His eyes flick to Bitty’s, and Bitty schools his expression into a supportive smile. It’s hard. Feels unnatural. What Jack’s saying – it sounds like a break-up. Jack nods at him, and visibly swallows. “With Shits going to Harvard –” he’s forced to pause as Ransom and Holster interject with hollers and raucous clapping. Shitty takes a bow. “And I’m going to Brown; I’m going to be doing placement as well as classes, and I think we all know that first year law isn’t a breeze… Uh –” He coughs a little, and adjusts his stance: he stands up straighter, shoulders level and Soft Hands shirt pulled taut across his chest. It seems like a bittersweet fashion choice, given what Bitty is now sure is coming. “Neither of us feel we’d be able to dedicate the time needed to the band, and it’d be a disservice to you guys to pretend like we could.” He opens his mouth again, like he wants to say more, but then seems to decide against it.

It’s only after he’s nodded decisively that Ransom, Holster, and Shitty start applauding.

“Nice speech, man. _Nice_ fuckin’ speech.” Shitty slaps him on the back, and although Jack rolls his eyes, Bitty can see the faint tint of pink across his cheekbones.

“We’ll play through our booked gigs, but if it’s alright with you guys, I think the grad show should be the final one. Seems fitting, I guess.”  
As Ransom and Holster chorus their agreement, Jack’s eyes find Bitty’s again. His face falls rapidly. It’s only when he breathes out “ _Bits_ , come here,” that Bitty realizes he’s crying.

He doesn’t hesitate before crossing the room and pressing his wet face into Jack’s chest.

“Shh, bud, it’s okay.” This gets murmured into Bitty’s hair, but must still be audible to the group at large if Holster’s badly-whispered “ _did he just call Bitty ‘bud’?_ ” is anything to go by.

“I’m sorry,” Jack tells him. He sounds, in a word, devastated. His hands stroke over Bitty’s cheeks, even as Bitty pulls back to look him in the eye.  
“You don’t have anything to be sorry for. I just –” he gasps in a breath, hating how wobbly he sounds. It turns into a sob. “I’m just going to miss playing with you so much.”  
“Oh,” Jack says, but it’s through a sympathetic laugh, followed by a “Bits, hey,” as he swipes his thumbs under Bitty’s eyes. “We can still play together. All the time. Do nothing else, if you want.”

Bitty barely pays any mind to the yells of “ _too much information!_ ” and the exaggerated retching noises coming from his other three bandmates – _former_ bandmates, it now seems. He clutches at Jack’s shirt, distorting the logo emblazoned across the front, and rises up on his toes. The smile on his face can’t do anything to stop the words from tumbling out, clear and seething with adoration despite being choked with the tears still clogging Bitty’s throat.

“I love you.”

Uncertainty flickers across Jack’s face, his own smile freezing slightly before a miniscule crease forms between his brows. Now that it’s out there, though, Bitty can’t take it back.

“I do. I love you. I love you, Jack.”

The furrow disappears almost as quickly as it came, Jack’s eyes turning molten with warmth. He lets out a noise somewhere in the vein of a falling sigh, like something had been forced out of the depths of him – or, released.

“I love you,” he replies. “I love you, so much.” He says it simply, surely, and Bitty can’t help the tiny whimper that escapes as Jack pulls him up into a kiss.

If it only lasts a second because they’re engulfed in a howling, jostling three-man group hug by the soon-to-be-done Soft Hands, it doesn’t seem to matter so much.

They’ve got time.

 

* * *

 

 

“We’ve got one more for you.”

Jack’s words are met by a mixture of boos and cheers, and a “ _We don’t want it!_ ” that is unmistakably Lardo. Jack chuckles good-naturedly, and Shitty shouts back “ _You’ll hear what we serve you, and you’ll like it!_ ”

“This is our last song as a band, as Soft Hands. So it’s a little – ah, it’s a little sad, eh boys?” Ransom answers him with a melancholic chord. Shitty says, “Fuckin’ oath.”

“This year, we tried a different direction to what we’d been previously, and with you guys who’ve been with us from the start – four fucking years, right? You guys sticking with us in everything, that’s just… cheers for being supporters, cheers for being stand-up punks out here.” There’s a smattering of applause, and some whooping yells. “I can say without a doubt, and I know the guys back me up on this, but the shit we’ve played this year is the best we’ve ever done, and part of that is because of what all of you do for us. So, thanks for that.” Someone yells back “ _you’re welcome_ ,” and Jack grins briefly through the answering laughs. “And, ah, for me, I know I couldn’t be playing with a better group of guys. They’re the best people I’ve ever known, and mean more to me than anything, and getting to play with them these years – this year especially –” he looks over to Bitty, and Bitty looks back, unable to tame the rush of blood to his cheeks – “has just been the best in all the years I’ve been doing DIY. And I know we’re getting sappy here, I know we’re getting a bit much –”  
“Aww, we know you love us, Jack.” Shitty drawls it, low and suggestive, and the crowd laughs again.  
“I do love you, Shits. But as cheesy as it is to say, I think that what we – like, we as a band, want all of you to know is that you make the scene. You do. And whether you’re in to guys, or girls, or both or neither, or you’re in to hockey, or you don’t play sports, or you just listen and can’t play an instrument, or – or, you like baking, maybe –” he pauses, eyes still on Bitty, and licks his lips slowly and deliberately. “It doesn’t matter. You’re here, and you’re punk as fuck.”

The crowd yells back at him, two hundred voices in a cramped basement, and if there was an inch of Bitty that still cared, he might worry about a noise complaint from the neighbors. He blinks the building wetness from his eyes, unable to reign in his smile, cheeks starting to ache even as Jack holds up his hands to quiet the group.

“Our last song is a cover. It’s the first song my boyfriend played for me. You might know it too.”

Tomorrow, Jack is graduating. Bitty is going to say goodbye to him, then board a flight back to Georgia for the summer. He’s going to have to wait until July to see Jack in the flesh again – and though their time together will be restricted by prying Bittle eyes and Southern sensibilities, every moment will be sweet. They’re going to Skype every day, and text every hour, and Bitty already knows the amount of snapchats he’ll send will be truly ridiculous. There will be two weeks together, in Providence, before the semester starts, and Jack has booked them tickets to gigs and promises that his cupboards will be full of flour. When Bitty’s back at school, he’ll be in Jack’s old room thanks to some sort of mysterious deal sealed with a handshake and a kiss, despite Shitty’s outraged cries of nepotism. His own room, he’d passed to Nursey, who had actually put their name forward for it. Last Bitty had seen, they’d had their arm slung around Chow’s shoulders, having what looked to be a solemn discussion with Dex. No one had seemed angry, at least.

Even tonight, full of people again and throbbing with music, the Haus seems different already.

Bitty knows there will be more playlists, and more early morning runs, and maybe even his own tattoo.

Now, though. Now, he stands in front of a keyboard in an overloaded basement. He feels a sticky line of sweat trail its way down his back, and flicks his hair from his face, and meets eyes with his boyfriend as they sing into their microphones.

Jack’s voice comes through loud and clear although he’s yelling through a smile, and he quirks an eyebrow as he sings _baby, I can see your halo_.

Bitty adds an extra flourish on the notes.

It makes it more punk.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There were a lot of amazing, flattering, and tear-inducing creations made by readers and friends in the duration of me posting this fic. Every single one made me yell, for reals. I had them all catalogued on tumblr, but have since done a cleanse on that particular online presence. I fucked up a little and lost my record of who had made stuff, and then had to contend with tumblr's questionable search function to try and re-locate them. I'm really hoping that I managed to get everyone!
> 
> This note is just to reiterate my gratitude and love for these wonderful people. You should go and follow them all, if you have tumblr, because they're each one inescapably talented and made me so stupidly proud of what I wrote. In alphabetical order:
> 
> [1angallagh3r](http://1angallagh3r.tumblr.com/)   
>  [abominableobriens](http://abominableobriens.tumblr.com/)   
>  [awfullyruby](http://awfullyruby.tumblr.com/)   
>  [dangerousdare](http://dangerousdare.tumblr.com/)   
>  [daughterofthemyscira](http://daughterofthemyscira.tumblr.com/)   
>  [i-am-weis](http://ericrichardbittlejr.tumblr.com/>ericrichardbittlejr</a>%0A<a%20href=)   
>  [jenapfurlou](http://jenapfurlou.tumblr.com/)   
>  [omgpieplease](http://omgpieplease.tumblr.com/)   
>  [sketch-please](http://sketch-please.tumblr.com/)   
>  [spot-of-paint](http://spot-of-paint.tumblr.com/)   
>  [zimmerhomme](http://zimmerhomme.tumblr.com/)
> 
> (*¯ ³¯*)♡

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you have enjoyed it, I highly recommend that you check out the fic playlists on [my public Spotify]() \- there are a whole 12 of them! More than enough for all your punk-listening purposes.  
> ♡♡♡  
> I really appreciate everyone who has read and commented on this fic, and shared it, and made art and graphics for it! I couldn't have predicted how much this would take off, and I truly cherish every single reaction.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Soft Hands Sketches](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11081880) by [Omgpieplease (SceneryTurnedWicked)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SceneryTurnedWicked/pseuds/Omgpieplease)
  * [Soft Hands and BEYOND](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11759097) by [Omgpieplease (SceneryTurnedWicked)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SceneryTurnedWicked/pseuds/Omgpieplease)
  * [Soft Hands and BEYOND](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11759097) by [Omgpieplease (SceneryTurnedWicked)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SceneryTurnedWicked/pseuds/Omgpieplease)
  * [[Podfic] baking is punk as fuck](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13212660) by [presumablynot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/presumablynot/pseuds/presumablynot)




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